


Le Revenant

by j520j



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Eventual Smut, M/M, plot twist in the end!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-01-09 01:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12265704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j520j/pseuds/j520j
Summary: Hastings solves one of the greatest mysteries about the world's greatest detective.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, English is not my native language. If you find some grammar atrocity, let me know.

"... and after standing in the bathroom window ..." said Poirot, concluding his explanation. "Major Holland fired the old musket, killing Mrs. Holland when she was on the balcony of her room."

I watched incredulity grow in the eyes of the suspects in the room, and the Major's face writhed in an expression of fury. The moment of revelation of the guilty was always tense, but Poirot always kept his voice and expression firm.

"Mrs. Holland's body fell from a great height, which was considered the cause of her death. The sound of the weapon was camouflaged by the demonstration shots that were taking place on the other side of the property." my friend continued, as his eyes met the enraged Major.

"This is ... it's ... absurd!" the man's face was red. "If so, why have they never found any projectiles in my wife's body ?!"

"You have always bragged about having excellent marksmanship, even when using ancient weapons and few precise ones, like the musket or the arquebus." Poirot lifted his chin. "The shot was scratched at the back of Mrs Holland's head, but it was enough to make her fall. The damage was taken as a consequence of the fall, not a shot."

"You have no evidence!" the man shouted, getting up from his chair where he stood impassively until a moment ago.

Facing the challenge, Poirot reached into his pocket and held out an old musket projectile in his hand. Everything made sense: the gunpowder traces in the major's hand, the footprint on the carpet, the witness reports, and the place where the gun was hidden. With the projectile found, there was no doubt that Mrs. Holland had been murdered and not the victim of an accident. And the only one capable of doing that was the Major.

The man sighed deeply, as if trying to calm himself. Everyone in the room, including me, was silent.

"Heh ... hehehe!" the man shook his head. "Looks like I lost my last battle! Congratulations, Monsieur Poirot, a good soldier knows when he lost the war, but ..." he reached into his coat pocket. "... it's the duty of a man of war to take the enemy along with him to the grave!"

"Poirot!" I screamed, almost at the same time the shot was fired.

Screams could be heard as I saw Hill and Marson grab the Major and immobilize him on the floor. My head turned toward my friend, who was no longer standing. Poirot was lying on the floor of the room, one hand resting on his chest.

"Someone call a doctor!" I heard Mrs. Hill scream, at the same time I could hear the Major's insane laughter. An immense willingness to catch the revolver on the floor and shoot his head grew in me, but no ... not yet. Poirot was the priority.

"Oh, my God, Poirot! Are you all right?!" I shouted, approaching my friend.

"Nnngh ... ah ... H-hastings ...?!" he murmured. And what I saw shocked me:

There was an immense stain of blood on Poirot's once impeccably white shirt. I grabbed him hard, bringing one of my hands to his face, which was getting wet with sweat. Somewhat abruptly, I pushed his hand away from him so I could better see the damage done by the weapon.

I had seen injuries like that before in the war. The bullet hole position on the chest left no doubt: the shot was accurate. Damn the Major and his wretched good aim!

"Hastings ...!" Poirot coughed and I saw blood escaping his lips. "... sorry ... I ... should have been more ... careful ..."

"Poirot, stay calm!" I shouted, though it was me who needed the most to calm down. "Help is on the way! Help is ...!"

" _Non, mon ami_ ..." he gasped as more blood flowed through his mouth. From the gravity of the wound I could hardly believe that Poirot was still able to speak. I have seen fellow soldiers die instantly from similar shots. There was so much blood that we were both getting soaked. "... th-there is no help ... none ..."

"Poirot, no ... NO!" In my panic I raised him in my arms. Despite being a short man, he was considerably heavy. But my despair gave me extra strength, and for me Poirot weighed little more than a child. "A doctor! Call a doctor! _Someone do something!!!_ "

Mrs. Hill would have told me later that the scene of me lifting Poirot in my arms reminded her of Michelangelo's Pietà.

.............................

I cannot remember what happened next.

I remember men dressed in white asking me to release Poirot - something I did with extreme reluctance. Then someone led me to a room. They offered me drinks, which I didn't accept. I remember a recognizable friendly hand - Japp? - helping me up from the chair. The only thing I can remember more clearly was Miss Lemon - how did I get into the apartment? - offering me a bath towel with her shaking hands.

"Captain ..." I remember her face, red and wet with tears. "... y-you ... uh ... you need a shower."

I looked at myself and realized that my clothes were stained with blood. Poirot's blood. The fabric was hardened by dry liquid and dyed dark red. My hands were also dirty, the blood had come under my fingernails and when I looked in the mirror, I noticed that my chin was also stained red.

A memory came to my mind: when Poirot breathed his last, I bent down to kiss his forehead, and the blood on his face spotted my chin. _I love you_ …  I murmured, though I knew he could no longer hear me.

It was at this moment that I broke. I hugged Miss Lemon - who, despite the state of my clothes, did not refuse the hug - and together we cried sitting on the sofa for a long time.

........................................

That night, unable to sleep, I was torturing myself with various thoughts.

 _Why did I not throw myself in front of the gun?_ I thought. _Why was I not on Poirot's side to protect him? Why did I not kill the major while the police had not yet arrived? Why did Poirot not tell me, in advance, who was to blame, so I could be on my guard and prevent any incident?_

_Why I've never told that I love him?_

All useless thoughts, of course. It was too late.

I rolled over in bed, thinking that I would never have the opportunity to tell Poirot all I wanted to say. I would never hear his voice again, never feel the warmth of his presence, the comfort of his embrace. And my insane dreams of one day being able to touch those lips with mine were also finished. Forever.

At some point, Miss Lemon knocked on my bedroom door and asked if I wanted to go to the funeral. I told her I didn't know because I didn't want to see Poirot's pale face again. The memory of his face losing color rapidly as he twisted in pain was still very vivid. Guilt gnawed at me.

"Mister Poirot had left instructions that, when he died, his funeral should be made in a closed casket." she said, voice broken by sorrow. "He said ... he'd rather have friends remember him alive and not dead."

I would have drop more tears if they hadn't already all fallen. Like a sleepwalker, I got out of bed and decided to get ready. I had to say goodbye to my friend.

 _Why did I not tell him before?_ thoughts continued to torture me. _Why did I not declare my love for him when he was still alive?_

_Why things have to be that way?_

……………………

There is nothing extraordinary to tell about Poirot's funeral.

It was as everyone could expect it to be: a multitude of friends, acquaintances, and admirers of the world's greatest detective were present, among them some members of the House of Lords, influential figures and simpler people.

Some former clients, all very grateful for the help Poirot has offered them in the past. Some women in widows' clothes, secret admirers of my friend. Some rivals, detectives and police chiefs with whom my friend worked together - often not always in harmony - but who had great respect for him.

Madame Oliver gave the speech, Japp and a good part of the Scotland Yard paid homage, Miss Lemon held my arm inconsolably and, for me, I carried out the saddest task: to deposit Poirot's swan cane on his coffin moments before the tomb is closed.

I was surprised to see the absence of Poirot's relatives - of whom, I must confess, I did not know any of them. I figured maybe they were not notified in time. I also concluded that, as a matter of practicality, Poirot wanted to be buried in England rather than Belgium. The tomb, according to the documents that Miss Lemon had found, had already been purchased a few years earlier by Poirot himself. _So that the friends did not have even more work to do_. he would have said.

We left the graveyard in silence. Mourning weighed in our hearts and we all imagined how life would be sadder and colorless with Poirot's absence. I myself could not imagine my life without him, and on several occasions I felt directionless even in time to drive the car.

Me and Miss Lemon returned to Poirot's apartment at the Whitehaven Mansions which, much to our surprise, it was left to us both as an inheritance. It seemed that Poirot really had no more relatives who could inherit his possessions.

We still needed to think about what to do with the property. Maybe sell and split the money, since neither of us felt compelled to live there. Miss Lemon said good night and said that she would rather go home alone. I, myself, went to sleep. It was hard to stay in that place, but I could not feel compelled to leave.

I opened the door to Poirot's room. I sat on his immaculate bed and laid my head on his pillow. It was still possible to smell him and this only made me sad. I could never have him in my arms. It was too late. Without even realizing it, I ended up crying in his bed until I fell asleep.

But something extraordinary happened in the middle of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

It was two in the morning when I was awake. I was in Poirot's bed, his pillow still wet with my tears, a swelling in my eyes. I got up and went to the kitchen to make some hot tea. I felt cold.

That empty, dark apartment oppressed me, but in a somewhat welcoming way. Poirot and I shared that place like roommates for years, and despite the sadness of knowing that this place would been empty, I couldn't imagine myself leaving.

All this time I had always kept a respectful distance from my friend, pretending embarrassment every time he hugged me and kissed my cheeks. Trying to disguise my flushed face every time he touched me to straighten my tie. Observing beautiful girls in a foolish attempt to make him jealous. Hiding my immense satisfaction every time he invited me to a dinner, pretending it was a romantic date.

I know Poirot would never reciprocate my feelings, for besides being a practicing Catholic he never showed signs of any interest in men. He has always been the kind of person who is proud to be himself with his own eccentricities. He would have told me, without any shred of embarrassment, if men appealed to him.

I never knew his opinion on the subject. If he would be a sympathizer. I also never knew of any case in which he would have arrested a man or a woman for falling in love with the same sex. In fact he himself seemed to have some 'effeminate' friends, so I figured this kind of detail wouldn't be a problem when it came to choosing his acquaintances.

But of course, it's one thing to be friends with a homosexual. Another is live with him. Even more embarrassing: to know that the bugger has an attraction for you. Even in cases of 'traditional' platonic passions the whole thing was always embarrassing, even worse in these cases.

It was safer to hide my feelings. It was safer to say nothing and make sure that, at least, I still had Poirot's friendship.

And now he's gone.

My eyes were too swollen to cry again. I finished my tea and went back to my friend's room. I knew sleeping there wouldn't comfort me, it might make me feel even worse, but I couldn't help it.

I wanted, at least, pretend to feel Poirot one last time, before his scent disappeared from his covers.

…………………………

I had a strange dream that mingling with reality.

In it, Poirot was still alive and we were invading an apartment to collect clues. The sound of the key turning in the lock sounded very clear to my ears and I remember saying to my friend: _Why did you ask me to break the door if you already had the key?_

I opened my eyes and saw only darkness. The sound of the front door opening made me stay alert. _Am I still dreaming? What time is it? It's still dark, it cannot be Miss Lemon_.

I started to hear footsteps in the living room and it made me lift my head. Someone was in the apartment. _No ... I must be dreaming. Who would enter here, and in possession of the key?_

The person was approaching the room. The door opened and the silhouette, in the darkness of the room, was very distinguishable. A familiar silhouette.

 _I'm ... I'm dreaming, aren't I?_ I thought. _This can only be a dream!_

"P-Poirot ?!" my voice sounded low, but in the silence of the apartment it was possible to hear it clearly.

The stranger's hand reached for the light switch. I blinked with clarity, but as soon as my eyes regained focus, I could see him.

It was him. Poirot was standing before me, smiling.

Oh, that sweet smile I thought I'd never see! Those beautiful, gentle brown eyes that I loved so much. The clothes he wore looked old and worn, but they did not stain his imposing figure.

"Sorry to interrupt your sleep, _mon ami_." he said, with his unmistakable and lovely voice.

"Poirot!" I exclaimed louder.

I jumped up from the bed and ran into his arms, squeezing his body against mine tightly. I touched him everywhere to make sure he was himself and not a feverish illusion. It was him: that warm body, that anxious breath and even the soft murmur of his Gallic laughter proved that it was Poirot himself. _My_ Poirot.

Without thinking, I tilted my head to the side and kissed him desperately.

A murmur of surprise escaped his lips, but he soon calmed down and returned my kiss with equal fervor. Tears fell from my eyes and the taste of them mingled with his. Apart from the salty taste, I could taste blood in Poirot's mouth, but that didn't bother me.

After neither of us got any more breath, we broke the kiss and moved away a little. But very little.

" _Mon ami_ ..." he murmured. His half-closed eyes regaining focus, indicating that my kisses had an effect on him. "I'm happy to see you, but we need to talk ..."

"Poirot!" I interrupted him, the tears falling from my eyes. "Oh, God Almighty, I thought you were dead!" my arms were around his waist and I was shaking, I was afraid that if I let go, Poirot would leave me again. "What happened? You had a catalepsy? The doctors were wrong? Oh, for Christ's sake, don't tell me we buried you alive this morning!"

" _Non, non, non ... ne t'inquiète pas, mon ami_!" he shoved me gently. Not wanting to lose his touch, I kept holding his hand. "This morning you gentlemen buried a coffin with ballasts inside. I wasn't there."

"But where were you? And why no one told us you survived the shot?"

"Ah, Hastings." my friend shook his head and held my hand tighter. "Actually ... I didn't survive."

…………………………

Poirot's age has always been a mystery to me. Not that it mattered, but I was always curious.

When I first met Poirot, before the Great War, he was already retired from the Belgian police. Obviously it couldn't be for age because the man didn't seem to be much older than me. As he was always walking his cane, I concluded that his retirement was due to some work accident.

Miss Lemon took care of his papers, and one day I ended up asking about his age. She had told me that, according to his birth certificate, Poirot was born on 1st of September of 1880, making him only six years my senior. However, another document indicated that Poirot had retired from the Belgian police in 1904, which made no sense at all. A 24-year-old lad would only be released from the police force if he had suffered a very serious accident, which didn't appear to be the case.

"Some parents record children late, especially if they live in rural areas." Miss Lemon commented. "But I think that, even in Mr. Poirot's case, this is an exaggeration. Certainly the date of his retirement is wrong."

Over the years, I haven't seen any great signs of aging in Poirot.

His expression marks didn't seem to increase, his vitality seemed to be the same from always and even using a walking stick, I never saw great problem in his locomotion - in fact, I often saw him move freely without the use of it. It was true that he was dyeing his hair, but even in this detail he still didn't seem to have aged a single day since we first met before the Great War.

Now I was about to find out why.


	3. Chapter 3

My hands were quivering, forcing me to hold the glass of whiskey tighter. The surprise of seeing Poirot alive still reverberated in my body.

Not to mention the thrill of finally being able to express my feelings. I confess that I would have preferred to kiss him after I had declared myself verbally, but my emotions got the best of me.

Poirot set himself a dose of mint liqueur and sat down beside me on the couch. I needed all my willpower to not throw the glass away and take him in my arms again, preferring to wait for him to drink and explain himself.

"I'm sorry to have caused you, Miss Lemon, and good Inspector Japp such sadness." he said, sighing.

"It's all right, Poirot. What matters is that you're alive." I said, putting my hand on his shoulder and feeling the pleasant warmth of his body. "When morning comes, we will give this good news to everyone."

His posture grew more upright and an expression of discontent appeared on his face.

"I'm afraid not, _mon ami_ ..." he turned the glass and drank the liquor in one go. "They cannot know that Poirot is alive. In fact, not even you could know."

"Why?!" I put the glass of whiskey on the coffee table. "Why, Poirot? What does all this mean? Is it some sort of secret espionage plan? That shot you took on the chest was a trick? If was, it was certainly the most well-done trick I've ever seen! I was certain that you were not breathing, that your heart had stopped beating. "

"Your perception did not fail you, _mon chou_." said my friend, making me blush with the tender way he used to address me. "I really was not breathing and my heart certainly stopped beating."

"So you were resuscitated by the doctors?"

"Not by doctors." he paused for a long time, as if picking out the words. "Actually I ... I cannot stay dead for long.

"I say, how?!" I shook my head, hoping that this confused conversation was the fruit of my outgoing feelings, not my friend's speech. "Poirot, what are you talking about?"

"Tell me, Hastings, have you heard of _Les Revenants_ legends?"

"No ..." I said, calmly. "But this word is not strange to me. Does it mean 'returnees'?"

" _Oui_." Poirot bowed his head. "Le Revenant is an entity that, after death, returns to the world of the living. It is different from a walking dead, a dead body reanimated with black magic. It is also different from a ghost, which does not have a physical body. Some tend to compare them with vampires, which is not at all wrong, although Bram Stoker's fantasies and films like Nosferatu have made great distortions in reality. "

"Poirot ..." all that information was making my head spin. "What are you talking about? What magic, vampires, and this Revenant thing has to do with you?"

It was an extremely silly question when I stop to remember myself as I write these lines. But my stupidity was rewarded with a kind smile from my friend. The same thing he gave when I seemed to understand nothing at all.

"Ah, we stayed away from each other for just one day, but ... I missed you, _mon ami_!"

Smiling, I leaned in to kiss him again.

The taste of blood I'd felt the first time was still noticeable in his mouth, though the sweet taste of the liquor was more pronounced. There was also, in the background, the characteristic taste of his lips. These I wanted to taste with more intensity.

"Hastings." Poirot broke the kiss and pushed his face away from mine. " _Je suis un Revenant_."

I blinked a few times as reality lodged in my head.

"Poirot, are you telling me that ... you're a ... zombie?"

" _Non, non, non_! What a terrible term!" he shook his head. "Revenant, Hastings, an entity that in the past was called a ghast, undead, Wiedergänger, vampire, among other less praiseworthy terms, a poor soul trapped in a body that cannot die until a debt is paid."

"What...?!" I could hardly believe that Poirot, such a learned and rational man, could be speaking of creatures of fantasy tales as if they were real. Much worse: that he himself was saying that he was one of these creatures. "Good Lord, please! Stop joking!"

Sighing impatiently, Poirot opened the buttons of the old shirt he was wearing (where had he found that piece so inelegant?) And displayed his chest. For a moment lust took hold of me and all I could do was enjoy his beautiful imposing bust, covered by dark chest hair. In the next instant I realized, to my utter shock, the piercing mark on the bullet of Major Holland's revolver positioned where his heart was.

"It's almost gone." said my friend, caressing the scar. "Soon it will disappear."

"Poirot, but ... but ... _how_ ...? Did you die or didn't die at that moment?"

"I'll explain what happened the day before yesterday: Major Holland shot me, striking my heart with devilishness accuracy. Death took over my body, as anybody in my situation and, to my agony and yours, I had to die in your arms."

I felt an immense sadness as I recalled that moment, though Poirot was very much alive in front of me.

"I was taken to the hospital, lifeless, and once I was safe in the morgue, my body began to regenerate, and after some procedures, which I prefer not to talk about yet, I contacted a 'colleague' of my kind who came to the hospital and allowed my recovery to be done with all possible discretion. Soon after he provided _la farse_ for the funeral service."

Poirot got up from the couch and poured himself some more liquor.

"Believe me, _mon ami_ , it caused me immense pain to hear of your sadness, but I had no choice. When little detectives are shot in the heart they must _remain_ dead, otherwise ..." He took a sip. "There are certain truths in this world that most people are not yet ready to face. For all intents and purposes, Hercule Poirot is dead forever."

"But you're alive, Poirot!" I got up. "And if you were resurrected because there is some kind of supernatural power, well ... it doesn't matter to me! I am very happy to see you well!"

"Does it not scare you that I was dead and ... returned?" Poirot's eyes were apprehensive. "Do you not feel uncomfortable to know that I was a corpse several hours ago, and now I'm a living man again? That I'm a ... Revenant?"

"No." I said with intensity. "You're here, by my side, that's what matters, the 'why' and 'how' I don't care.

"Are you telling me, _mon coeur_ , that you still love me even though I'm not a normal person?"

I was about to say 'yes', but the fact that Poirot used the word love so directly caught me off guard.

"I heard your declaration, _mon chou_." he approached me and took my hands in his. "Even though my skin was cold and my heart stopped, I could hear your statement and that's why I disobeyed the laws and came back to you."

"Laws? What do you ...?"

"Shhhh." he brought one of his fingers to my lips. "Let's not talk about this, not now, just tell me, Hastings, are you not scared to discover my true nature?"

"No, I'm not." I said truthfully. "You're the same old chap, Poirot, why should I fear you?"

"Do you trust me?" his voice seemed full of uncertainty and he squeezed my hands more tightly. "Knowing who I am means that your life can change, Hastings. Drastically. Especially if you want to stay with me."

"I want to stay with you, and besides, you've told me everything. There's no turning back."

"I have ... the means to make you forget everything I told you tonight."

A shiver ran down my spine, and I held Poirot's hand tighter.

"The life of a human next to a Revenant is not a bed of roses, but it does not have to be that way, I can make you ... forget it, so you could go back to the 'normal' world where Hercule Poirot is dead and he was never here to tell you this whole story. "

"No! I don't want to go back to that world!" I exclaimed. "I confess I still don't understand everything you told me, but I don't want to live in a world where the person I love is dead! I prefer the alternative, whatever it is."

Poirot's eyes filled with joy, but there was a trace of sadness deep inside them.

"So ... would you agree to stay by my side? If I ask you to meet a world of darkness that you never dreamed of, a world that might not be very pleasant to you, would you accept it?"

"If you're by my side, I can handle anything."

"If I ask you, would you share this new life with me, _mon amour_? A life with even more dangers?"

"Yes!"

"And what if I ask you ..." Poirot's voice took on a more serious and frightening tone. "... for you to give me your _blood_?"

.............................

(Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)

René Dupont carried on his back a huge sack of flour dyed red. Inside, was his new victim - or at least a piece of it. A charming fifteen-year-old girl who accepted his invitation to have a beer at _Belle Vue_ , one of the most well-known taverns in Brussels.

He needed to be more careful. René knew that. After all, three months ago, that annoying little police inspector appeared at his house asking questions. To make matters worse, the officer had managed to ask the right questions and was already convinced that René was responsible for the disappearance of seven other girls.

 _He would never understand_ , the man thought as he threw the sack of flour on the Senne River. _No one can understand that I am a predator_. _What I do is part of my nature. Who would blame a tiger for hunting? Who would call a crocodile cruel just because he follows his instinct to kill?_

René sighed deeply as he watched the sack sink into the dark waters. That was the last bit. He glanced sideways to make sure there was no one on the street and rushed home. No policemen on the street.

 _Le boucher_ was what the newspapers nicknamed him when they discovered the body of one of the victims divided into three barrels in a warehouse in Koekelberg. He didn't like the name. After all, he was not a butcher, but an exquisite and classy shredder. Almost like that arrogant, long-spoken police officer who interrogated him.

 _Fortunately, that silly effeminate man must be in Rebecq and the North Sea at this point ... at the same time!_ the man laughed.

Cutting the police inspector's body into pieces gave him more pleasure than killing that girl in Antwerp. He should have kept that egg-shaped head as a souvenir. To admire every day that curved mustache inside a pot of vinegar would be quite comforting.

He would have gone straight to the tavern if he hadn't known he had to be careful. The inspector's disappearance still reverberated and he knew that he would soon have to flee the city.

 _Just one more_. He thought. _Just one more girl and I'm leaving._

René entered his house in Saint-Gilles, already thinking about what he would do next morning. In all the steps it would take to catch his next victim. His humble home had no electric light, so he lit the lamp.

And what he saw in his living room left him stunned.

"Y-you ...?!" the man exclaimed, dropping the lit match he had used to light the lamp.

Sitting on his couch was a 5ft 6in tall man with a thick body, a head beginning to grow bald, a magnificent mustache and brown eyes - in that moment, filled with fury.

 _Cannot be him!_ René thought, wondering if that would be a trick. The man was wearing the Belgian police uniform, which made his identity clear. _No ... I killed him ... I cut him into pieces ...!_

"Yes it's me." said the man, rising from the couch. "We have unfinished business to attend to, M. Dupont."

"N-no!" the man ran to the bookcase, where he kept one of his many sharp knives hidden. He pointed it at the officer aggressively. "I killed you ... _I killed you_!!!" he shouted.

"Yes, you killed me..." the man began to slowly approach René. "… and now, it's my turn to return the favor!"

In the spring of 1882, the murders of _Le boucher_ were over.

Police inspector Hercule Poirot, who had been missing for three months, received a decoration for proving that René Dupont was the murderer - whose body was found in his house in a way very similar to how he left his victims.

Investigations to find out who would have been responsible for Dupont's death were started but soon shelved. Public opinion was convinced that, whoever had done it, was a hero.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally... the smut! :D

Poirot was not my first man, but I confess that I was quite nervous when he led me to his room.

We kissed from the living room to the bed. I lay languidly between the covers and watched, mesmerized, as Poirot slowly removed his clothes, valuing every inch of exposed skin. In the diffused dawn light coming from the window, his stocky body looked even more wonderful. And the shadow of his hardness on his thigh indicated that he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

I reached up to the shirt of my pajamas, but he stopped me. Poirot wanted to undress me himself.

I buried my head in the pillow as I felt his firm hands slide down my body as he removed my clothes. Every part of my body exposed, he kissed. I could feel his warm breath brushing my skin, his fingers leaving soft scratches. A kiss he gave on my thigh made me moan, I needed him so much ... so much!

When he pulled my underpants, his face was close to my body and my hardened member escaped wildly from the confinement, hitting him in the face. He held a chuckle and before I could apologize, my voice was replaced by a guttural howling as he took me in his mouth.

"Poirot!" I exclaimed, still unable to believe that this was happening.

With a calculated rhythm, my friend take me whole in his wonderful mouth, to the point that I could feel the sensitive tip brushing against his throat. My hand was on his head and my fingers were brushing his hair. He took this as a hint to go faster.

"Oh ... oh L-lord! P-poirot ... ah!" It had been a long time since I had felt this kind of intimacy with anyone, so I didn't resist much. " _Ahhhhh!_ "

I threw my head back, one hand on my chest, trying to control my breathing. When my vision returned to focus, I could see my friend (my _love_!) Smiling triumphantly as he ran his fingers between his lips in an obscene way. My seed was running down his chin, and with one hand lifting my right leg, he sank his head again between my legs.

" _Ah_!" I exclaimed, feeling his tongue dance around my entrance and his saliva lubricating me. It was the first time someone had prepared me that way, and I could feel myself hardening again very quickly.

The sensation was so wonderful and intense that my politeness, that I keep even in the most intimate moments, was forgotten.

"Ah ... ahhh! F-fuck! _Fuck_!"

" _Oui, mon ami_ ..." Poirot murmured, lifting his head and smiling. "... _avec plaisir_!"

I could feel the tip of his cock brushing my entrance. I held my left leg to give him better access. In a soft, but firm movement, Poirot pressed himself into me completely, without even needing time to adapt.

It started with a slow and smooth movement that, despite very pleasant, was far from what I really wanted.

"M-more… , please!" I asked, taking one of my hands up to his shoulder and pulling him closer. "Faster...!"

A hungry smile formed on his lips as his thrusts became stronger. To each of them the bed shook. Oh, it was wonderful! Poirot had a strength in his hips that I had not imagined, and this pleased me deeply. But it wasn't the speed I wanted yet.

When I opened my mouth to ask him to go faster, he leaned over my body and kissed my lips. He buried his head in my neck and said:

" _Mon chou_ ..." he was panting. "I want to ... ask you something."

"Wha ... uh! ... Whatever you want!" I said as I scratched his back.

"Can I ... drink some of your blood?"

I held my breath for a few seconds and then let out a single breath. Poirot had told me that he wasn't ... well ... 'normal'. That he had some kind of supernatural power that allowed him to survive a shot in the chest. And he ask me, before, if I could give him a little of my blood. To tell the truth, until that moment I had left this information aside to work on it later.

"Uh, how much blood?" I asked, a slight tremor in my voice that I could not tell whether it was out of fear or excitement about the idea.

"I would never take you more than would be safe for your health." his gaze was serious and affectionate. And lascivious. "But because of my nature ... well, I can get pleasure from the 'trivial,' so to speak, but collecting a small amount of my partner's blood during the act always makes me happier."

"Oh, in this case." I said, eager to give to my lover as much pleasure as I could. "Yes, you can take my blood."

Poirot's gaze changed instantly as I said the phrase. It was a scary, predatory look. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes looked black, like a cat about to snatch a prey.

Then I felt his teeth piercing my neck.

For a moment I felt a stab of despair. The pain was intense, but it lasted no more than a second. Immediately, almost as if I had received a dose of morphine, my body relaxed. And it was at this moment that Poirot resumed his thrusts: strong, swift, and implacable.

It was a mixture of sensations: the intense pleasure that was being administered to me and my blood leaving my body at a very fast speed. In the haze of pleasure I could feel myself losing consciousness, but I didn't feel fear. I trusted Poirot. I could hear the sound of his throat as he swallowed my blood.

When it was already physically impossible for me to hold on, I came, scratching my friend's back. If my neck hadn't been injured I would have screamed out loud, but all I could do was mutter a hoarse, low howl. At the same time, I could hear a growl coming from Poirot when he peaked.

He paused, lifting his head and breathing heavily as if he had taken a dose of a strong drink. His moan of pleasure, which had a very erotic tone, sent shivers down my frail body.

Poirot brought his mouth up again to my neck and I could feel him lick my skin, probably picking up the blood that had run down. The feeling of low blood pressure, along with the pleasure that still reverberated beneath my skin, left me in a drunken state.

" _Tu es si belle, mon amour_." he murmured through his bloody lips.

I wanted to say 'I love you', but all I could do was smile before losing consciousness.

 

.......................................

 

It was past four pm when I finally woke up.

A delicious sensation of pain ran through my body, the kind of pain that came from an intense, but pleasurable, physical effort the night before. I was alone in Poirot's bed and I realized that the pillow where I had laid my head was different and one of the sheets had disappeared.

I took my hand up to my neck, hoping to feel pain, but I felt nothing. I got up and went into Poirot's bathroom. I looked at my neck in the mirror and saw no mark of the bite the night before.

 _A dream?_ I thought. And for a moment I was alarmed. _It happened, right? It couldn't have been a dream! Poirot ... he's alive! I know! It wasn't a dream!_

I ran into the living room and didn't see anyone. My despair increased.

"Poirot!" I exclaimed, and ran to the kitchen. "Poir ...!"

"Hastings?" my friend was standing at the stove preparing some food. "Did you wake up already? I thought you would only get up at dinner ti..."

I didn't wait for him to finish talking. I ran to him and kissed him, causing him to drop the wooden spoon.

"Good Lord!" I said, hugging him. "For a moment I thought ... I thought ...!"

"Hastings, you made me drop the spoon!" he said, in an angry but affectionate tone.

"Sorry." I bent down and picked up the spoon (a gentle pain in my hips as I made this move made me smile) I handed it back to him. "How are you?"

"How _I_ am?!" Poirot shook his head as he turned the faucet to wash the spoon. "You went through a horrible day, you did not feed properly, you had a great physical effort and you still lost blood the night before, and you're asking me if _I_ am okay?"

"Yes." I insisted, with a little tantrum. "Are you alright?"

Smiling, Poirot brought a hand up to the buttons of his shirt and displayed the left side of his chest. The night before there was a soft mark indicating the shooting wound. Now there was nothing else.

"As new! If it's possible to call someone of my age 'new', heh!" he put the clean wooden spoon into the pot and approached me. He brought one of his hands up to my chin. "And you, _mon chou_ , are you in pain? Tiredness? Maybe with dizziness?"

"I'm fine, Poirot!"

He tilted his head to one side, staring into my eyes. And he smiled.

"I'm glad." He went back to his pots. "The night before I feared that ... well ... I could have taken you more than I should have."

"You mean my blood?" I asked, taking my hand up to the small of his back. "Believe me, my friend, I've lost much larger amounts when I was in the war."

"Yes, I suppose ..." he sighed.

"Poirot, I ... huh ... I imagine you'll need my blood now, right? I mean ... every time we ..."

" _Non, non, non_!" he exclaimed. "There's no need, Hastings, your body gives me enough pleasure already."

"But you need blood, don't you? Revenants need blood?"

"As much as a man needs wine, _mon coeur_." Poirot reached for one of the spices on the shelf. "It's not a necessity, it's a pleasure, and it can help the quick healing of wounds." The mark of the shot I carried on my chest was already healed when I came here last night, but thanks to your blood, now there's no sign. "

"I see." I said, putting my hands on his shoulders and smelling the scent of his exotic cologny. My hands slid down his arms and went to his waist. A huge urge to drag Poirot back into the bed took care of me. "What now? What are we going to do?"

"I'm going to finish dinner while you're going to sit at the table, and then eat well." he said, shaking his body to get rid of my hands. "Hastings, do not underestimate the damage I did to your body last night. You need to rest."

"I've never slept so much in my life, Poirot!" I protested. "And I told you I'm fine."

"Sit down, Arthur." he said, his voice in a tone of command that sent a good shiver down my spine. Especially when he called me by my first name.

I obeyed. As I sat in the chair, a sharp pain made me wince. And I understood, in part, what Poirot meant about 'damage to my body'. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table, along with a tumbler. I served myself and asked:

"How will it be now?"

"What, _mon ami_?"

"You said no one can know you're alive." I lowered my head. "How are you ... well ... continuing your life?"

"I was already making preparations for this eventuality." my friend sighed. "Although it happened faster than I expected, do you remember last year when I said that the doctor had asked me to change my habits and diets because of my heart?"

"Yes." I remember being rather frightened when Poirot said that his doctor had told him that he had a weak heart.

"It was part of the plan, the idea was that in the next three years, I'd play the fate of a heart disease and finally die, then I'd assume a new identity, but things are going to have to be rushed now."

"What were you planning?"

"I would go back to Belgium and assume a new the identity, and then I would continue to do what I always do."

"What would ...?"

"Bring _la justice_ to criminals." Poirot's voice was low. "Until my debt is paid."

"Poirot ... what is this debt?"

My friend cast a sad look at me. He lifted the wooden spoon, putting some of the saucepan in his hand. He tasted the food and let out an exclamation of satisfaction.

"Not today, Hastings. Now let's eat."

 

..............................

 

Miss Lemon called me that night. She asked if it would be insensitive for her to appoint a lawyer to solve the issues of Poirot's inheritance next week. I said no.

"I think we should sort this out soon, don't we?" I said, trying to distort a voice of sadness.

"Yes." she replied, with genuine sadness in her voice. "But if you wish to keep the apartment, Captain, I would not mind. The amount of money Mr. Poirot left for me is more than satisfactory."

"Let's ... hmmm ... talk about it next week, okay? Good evening, Miss Lemon."

" _Si triste_ ..." Poirot mumbled as soon as I put the phone on the hook. He was behind me. "Oh, if I could tell her, but I cannot."

"I know, Poirot, and I'm glad you told the truth to me." I approached him and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Do you want to stay with the apartment?"

"One thing a Revenant learns fast is to be detached from material things, though in the last few years I've forgotten." he cast a look of sadness at his apartment. " _Non_ , I'll just take the good memories from here."

"And I."

He laughed. "And you, although even in this we will need to make some ... adjustments."

"What you mean?"

"Would be strange if, after the death of Poirot, the honored Captain Hastings appeared in public aside with a man very like him, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"Are you suggesting that I should pretend to die, too?"

" _Non, non, non_! That would kill poor Miss Lemon of sadness! We're going to ... think of some solution. For now, I have to go to the buckets in the utility room. I want to see if the blood stains on the sheet and the pillow case are gone. "

"Oh, did you get them?"

" _Oui_." Poirot lowered his head to conceal an expression of guilt. "We'd better not do this anymore ..."

"But if it gives you pleasure ..."

"My pleasure is to see you well, _mon amour_. Tonight, if you want to have another series of 'nighttime activities', let's not include the teeth this time."

"And if ..." I approached and grabbed him by his waist. "... this time _I_ want to bite you?"

Poirot's eyes seemed to glow for a moment with my suggestion.

"This would be ... interesting!"

 

.....................................

 

The next day I woke up earlier than Poirot. I could feel his arm around my torso and his soft breath brushing my neck (from which he tried to keep his distance). We were both naked, with a new bed sheet covering our bodies.

I moved carefully not to wake him and felt a bone makes a noise. The night before was more gentle, but now my body was feeling the efforts of both nights at same time. Maybe it was a good idea to take it lightly, even because Poirot showed a physical strength that I didn't expect.

After putting on my dressing gown, I went to the kitchen to make coffee. I sat in the office and looked at Miss Lemon's file, more specifically a drawer where she kept Poirot's documents in storage.

I open the drawer, since I would probably have to make use of the documents because the inheritance, and I began to take a look. Among them, I found my friend's birth certificate.

Looking at the date more closely, I realized that the one of the year numbers - which was poorly written - had been tampered. You could read '1880', but if you paid attention, there were some more recent ink lines on top of the second number eight. In fact, was a disguised number four. Poirot was born on 1st of September, 1840.

Ninety years! He was ninety years old, but apparently he had stopped growing old in his early forties.

"What happened to you, Poirot?" I murmured alone in the office.


	5. Chapter 5

Miss Lemon came to the apartment that morning, and I suggested we go and have lunch together before we settle matters of inheritance. She was dressed in widow clothes, in her expression she still carried all the sadness by the death of Poirot.

The hardest part was hiding my satisfied, renewed expression from a man just off a honeymoon. Fortunately my dark circles of lack of sleep were still huge and this helped in disguise.

When we left the apartment, the neighbors with whom we passed offered us condolences. We went to a restaurant, ate almost quietly, and before returning home and checking the paperwork, we decided to take a walk in the park.

"Do you want to sell the apartment?" she asked.

"Ah yes." I cleared my throat. "I, er, I've been thinking: I think I want it, at least for now."

In fact, the plan was for me and Poirot to stay in it for a little while until all preparations for his new identity were ready. We were probably going to leave until the end of the year.

"Really?" Miss Lemon looked up in surprise.

"Don't worry, I have some money in the bank, plus part of the bank account that Poirot left to me of inheritance, and I'll pay you half the value of the property."

"Oh, I told you money doesn't bother me, Captain." she said with a sigh. "I'm worried about you, do you think you're going to be able to live in that apartment by yourself, with all the memories and everything else?"

"I cannot feel it in my heart to get rid of it. At least not now." I said, controlling my smile. "That apartment is Poirot. If I sold it, I would feel like I was losing him twice."

"Oh, in this case." she motioned for us to sit on one of the benches in the square. "Speaking of Poirot's bank account, the amount he left for us was quite generous. Enough for me to retire. But I confess that the idea of quitting work bothers me. I've always been a woman who prefers action by staying home. "

"I understand, I am sure that with your references, you will find a new employer in the blink of an eye, I can make some recommendations myself."

"Actually, I was wondering if I could continue working for you, Captain."

Her proposal surprised me. She continued:

"Mr. Poirot knew very well how to do it on his own, but I don't think you would have the same... well! And if you wish, I can continue to come to the apartment and help you handle mail, documents and even housekeeping. "

"Er ... no." I said, rather abruptly. "I'd rather not, Miss Lemon, I'd rather have you as a friend than as a secretary or housekeeper, and you'd be bored with me. Poirot's life was more active and vibrant. And mine promising to be quite tedious from here on."

"So you don't intend to continue working as a detective?"

"Good Lord, no! I pity the poor wretch who wants to hire my services. As Poirot said, my ability to deduct has always been the worst."

"So ... do you intend to stay in that apartment by yourself, doing nothing?"

"Uh." was a good questioning. "I ... I still don't know what I'm going to do, Miss Lemon. Everything is still very new ..."

"Oh, I understand. Sorry to push you." she turned her face away. "But that apartment is too big for a single person. You could hire a valet, or ... have a wife."

I had to control myself to contain my laugh. Miss Lemon didn't know I already have a 'spouse'.

"I don't think Poirot would approve a strange woman walking in his apartment and destroying all his methodology in ordering the dishes in order of size and things like that." I paused and added without thinking. "That must be why he's never married."

"Well, you can imagine that one of the questions people asked me most about Mr. Poirot was if whether he was married, or whether he had a relationship with someone." Miss Lemon said, looking up. "Women always had their eyes shining when I said no, and there were a lot of them."

I must admit that in the past observing women flirting with Poirot made me happy. Internally, I wanted Poirot to marry one of them so that I could finally abandon my insane dreams about him. I just wanted to see him happy, right next to someone else. But now, knowing all these admirers made me angry and jealous.

"You speak as if Poirot did the act of seducing women into a habit ..." I said carefully.

"Oh, he didn't have to seduce anyone." Miss Lemon smiled for the first time that day. "Being himself was enough, his personality, his character, his intelligence, and his ability to know everything, alone with the domestic service, was something that made the women very interested, and though he said he had no hope of appearing attractive to the opposite sex, I've always found him a very handsome man. "

"Miss Lemon!" I stared at her. "Don't tell me you too ...?"

She blushed beneath her hat and smiled regretfully.

"Don't get me wrong, Captain. I'm not _this type_ of secretary ..." She bit her lip, as if regretting what she'd said. "... but it is true that I have always had a great admiration for Mr. Poirot, and he has always been very ethical, never making any kind of funny or improper act at an employee. He respected me immensely. But sometimes I wanted him to make a move ... " She paused, blushing even more.

"I understand." I nodded, thinking Miss Lemon was not to blame. Poirot was irresistible, however much he denied. And I wouldn't doubt if many women (and some men) wanted him. At his funeral I saw some of these secret admirers. And I could say that the number was considerably high.

This line of thought reminded me of Bram Stoker's book Dracula. I had read it only once, but a part of it was still very vivid in my memory. The part where Mina's friend Lucy Westenra begins to fall into the vampire's charms, being increasingly attracted to him by a fulminating passion she can not control. Almost as if the creature was controlling her mind, making her unable to reason right.

This thought made me very uncomfortable.

"... and I know that you also had an affection for him." Miss Lemon continued, and I almost jumped out of the skin.

"Wha ... what?!"

"Oh, you don't need to be ashamed, Captain." she put her hand on my shoulder. "I may not have much imagination, but I can see the obvious. You always looked at Mr. Poirot with moon-eyes, not even for the pretty red-haired girls you had such admiration. "

"I say!" still regaining my composure. "Miss Lemon, this kind of conversation is ..." I finally gave up arguing and just sighed. "Yes... I love Poirot more than as a friend, more than a brother, I love him as ... as ..."

" _Loved_." she corrected the past tense in my sentence (though she was incorrect). "I loved him too."

We sat in silence on the bench for some time until we decided to get up and go back to the apartment. As we checked the inheritance papers and Miss Lemon signed the term in which she agreed to sell her half to me (and she was adamant that I didn't have to rush to pay her) my thought began to float to places which I didn't like.

 _Poirot is an irresistible man, I know very well._ I thought. _But does this come from him or from his strange nature of ... Revenant?_

The idea of Poirot using his 'powers', or whatever, to seduce me flattered me. But, on the one hand, I was apprehensive. Was it possible that all this love I felt for him, all this physical attraction was ... false? Was it the result of some kind of spell?

 _Bullshit!_ I shook my head to dismiss this thought and had to apologize to Miss Lemon for my abrupt reaction. _I really love Poirot! What I feel is real! Because even if he was really trying to seduce me, he would have made a move years ago. He was always respectful and timid to me. In fact, I had to declare myself first!_

_But what if ..._

_What if he already took advantage of my body without my knowing it?_ I touched my neck where Poirot had bitten me two nights ago. No mark had been left. Even the memory of the pain was blurred. Poirot's words, saying that he had the means to make me 'forget' things I didn't like either.

Was it possible that, like Dracula, Poirot had already put me in a kind of spell? And without my knowing it, would he be taking advantage of me already?

 

..................................................

 

It was night when Poirot returned to his apartment. He managed to remain incognito to the neighbors.

"You should be more careful." was the first thing I said, rather rude since I should first tell him good night. "Miss Lemon left less than ten minutes ago. You could have met."

"There was no such risk, _mon coeur_." he said softly. "I could tell if Miss Lemon would be close or not and know how to avoid meeting with her."

"How? Is this some other kind of Revenants power?" I said with a twinge of bitterness.

"I can feel the ... how to explain? The 'life' of the people and I know when they are close or not."

"How?"

"Hmmm, it's kind of hard to explain. It's almost like it's a sixth sense. When I live with a person for a long time, I slowly start to ... well ... to 'feel' the life. A 'presence' that every human being possesses, and I can perceive it at a considerable distance." 

"A soul?"

" _Non_ , I would not use this classification, it would be the same as saying that a person's scent is a soul. It's more or less ... " Poirot snapped his fingers a few times and shook his head in frustration. "I'm sorry, _mon amour_ , it's really hard to explain, it's like explaining what sound is to someone who was born deaf."

"I get it. Let it go." I approached him and kissed him lightly on the lips. My smile, however, carried a little sadness. And he realized.

"What is it, Arthur? You look upset."

"It's weird to talk about you in the past, and I had to do this when I was talking to Miss Lemon, it was so sad, she ..." I stopped abruptly, not wanting to continue the sentence.

"She what?"

"No, nothing ..."

"Come on, Arthur, tell me what bothered you." he stroked my arm and I could feel a lascivious lust forming inside me. Good Lord, how did Poirot do this? Just a touch and I already felt compelled to forget everything and to kiss him hard. But the thought of the 'spell' made me retreat.

"She ... she liked you too." I said, lowering my head. "She said that she loved you."

"Ah yes." Poirot sighed sadly and headed toward the kitchen. "I knew this.  _Ma pauvre et fidèle Mlle Lemon!_  But I'm afraid I could do nothing to placate her thirst for Poirot. My heart already had an owner."

He smiled (what a wonderful smile!) And opened a bottle of wine. He poured the dark liquid into two goblets and gave me one. He continued:

"You, _mon chou_. Many years ago my heart always belonged to you!"

I took the goblet and drank it in one gulp. I barely had time to lower it and Poirot was already in front of me. His lips on mine. The taste of the wine mingling with the taste of him. My desire for him was even greater and all I could do was take him in my arms.

I fought in the Great War. I buried my parents, my friends, an older sister and even a nephew whom I considered as my son. I know this sounds terrible, but their death, though painful, didn't compare with the pain I felt when I thought I had lost Poirot.

Absentmindedly he took over my life and it became more cheerful because of it. And I could not imagine myself without him.

Before Poirot I was just a young man with no great ambitions or desires, a bored Englishman. The only things I had to talk to people about was golf, cricket, and cars. Always with a bored voice and little enthusiasm. Even my travels to South America seemed monotonous.

But when I was next to Poirot, everything changed. People commented (sometimes indecently) that my physical posture changed completely when I was standing next to the little Belgian. My face brightened, my mood increased. Poirot was the light of my life and he would always have whatever he wanted of me. And the day I thought he was dead, my world was filled with darkness.

I don't think I could survive for long without him. I had no reason to live. A pathetic, monotonous life with no ambitions, no one dependent on me, no close friends (except for Miss Lemon and Japp, whom I knew thanks to Poirot) and without any prospect of the future.

I would probably end up taking my own life - which was not worth much more now - so that I could meet him as soon as possible in the afterlife. Or surrender to the painless nonexistence.

But then Poirot came back, like a star in the middle of an empty universe.

At that moment I only wanted to surrender myself. Of body, soul and everything else that defined my existence. Poirot's life was light in my darkness, and like a moth that is attracted to a lamp, I only longed to plunge into that sweet flame.

In an instant his hands undress me and I could feel his skin touching mine. Oh, how could I describe what I really felt when I was with him for someone who had never loved and wished as intensely as I did? His voice, his touch, his smile, his voice... I just wanted him to penetrate me and fill me as a river in the flood. His body a sublime labyrinth where I longed to enter and lose myself forever.

I looked bewitched. Maybe I really was.

But that didn't matter to me. At least not yet...


	6. Chapter 6

It was March 1931. The apartment in London had been sold and my partner and I were in a hotel room in Brussels.

His new name was Pierre Jacquin.

I remember laughing when he presented me with the fake birth certificate. Well, not so false, really a Pierre Jacquin was born in January 1889 in the city of Liège, but the baby did not reach a year. Nor did he receive a death certificate. Apparently his parents believed that a post-morten photograph (a common custom in Victorian times) was official documentation.

"It's such a common name, Poirot." I commented

"Jacquin." he corrected me. "I'm Jacquin now."

"Yes." I admitted, without looking at his face. "But, as I said, Pierre is such a common name, I think it's the first name you think of a Frenchman or a Belgian. And Jacquin also seems to me to be a common last name. Well, I never meet any Jacquin, but it sounds like there's a million of them. "

"Pierre is very common, Jacquin not so much. It doesn't matter."

He tucked the long tie around his neck. After decades of always wearing a bow tie, he seemed bothered in wearing an ordinary tie. But it was part of his new identity.

"I admit it's weird." I said, still not daring to look at his face.

"Well, I have always feared the day when I would have to give up the identity of Hercule Poirot and take on another, which is why I have always referred to myself in the last few years in the third person. I was hoping that I could pay my debt before this."

He hadn't yet said anything about this 'debt' and I respected his silence.

Changes were not easy. Especially when they were so remarkable,

" _Voila_!" Poirot said triumphantly as he finished. "Look at me."

Not easy.

Poirot had taken off his mustache.

It was amazing how such a simple detail could make such a big difference. If I didn't know it was him, he might have passed almost unnoticed. Especially for the new choice of clothes. I never imagined, in my life, that I would see Poirot wearing tweed.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"You look very handsome." I said sincerely. "But ... weird."

"It's going to take a while for you and me to get used to it."

"It will not be easy, Hercule."

"Ah, it's not 'Hercule' now."

"Oh, it's true, Pierre..."

"Neither Pierre. It's too intimate."

"Jacquin." I said, with a regretful sigh.

Changes were not easy. Especially not for old Captain Hastings.

The official version was that after I had decided to sell the apartment and all Poirot's belongings, I had definitely moved to Argentina and wanted to stay there for the rest of my life. A mailbox in my name was opened and an 'associate' of Poirot would be in charge of receiving the letters of my friends and sending them back to me safely so that I could respond to the ones I found most vital.

Captain Hastings was now a lonely, sad man living on a ranch in Santa Fe and would rather not receive visitors. The man who was next to Poirot (Jacquin ... I need to get used to it) was Jeremy McKlein, his assistant.

Ah yes. And he wore a beard.

My facial hair was never very prominent. It took weeks for a reasonable mustache to grow on my face. But the little beard I grew up was enough to mask my identity as someone who had, by chance, seen my picture in the papers and so couldn't make the association. But I could hardly fool a known person. Luckily the chances of me meeting someone I knew in Belgium were minimal.

"Well, now what?" I said, scratching my chin, not yet accustomed to the hairs that covered it. "What do we do?"

"Let's keep bringing justice. You and me, my dear... McKlein!"

..........................................

The following months were very active.

The new Belgian-born private detective Pierre Jacquin, who was brought up in England and with a (golly!) English accent when he spoke French, was received with suspicion by the Belgian authorities, but soon he captivated them all.

Complicated cases were easy to unravel when he acted. Victims were avenged and others were saved in time. Criminals were caught before reaping other lives. Stolen jewelry was returned to its real owners. Crimes asleep were react and a new light was thrown upon them. In a short time Jacquin's name became famous.

And dangerous comparisons with the late Hercule Poirot began to emerge.

"You certainly must have known him!" one of our clients once asked. "It seems natural that two fellow countrymen working in the same area should be interested in each other's work."

"Ah, yes. I and Poirot met once." he said, struggling to keep the English accent in his voice. He really needed more training. "But as rivals, it was a banal affair, and he, being so brilliant, defeated me."

"Well, but if I'm not mistaken, he was old, right? He should have been at least sixty, from what I heard. "

 _A little more..._  I thought, but I kept quiet.

"Oh, yeah! And for that reason he no longer had so much vitality. Maybe this was the reason he wasn't like most of the detectives, who walks around in his four like a dog, chasing clues. He only needed his powerful gray cells!"

"Like you."

 ~~Poirot~~ (I mean ...) Jacquin hesitated for a moment, but kept his voice impassive.

"Yes, once we met, I decided to follow his method. It's much more effective."

"I see, well, I expect your method to be really effective at solving this."

Our client pointed to the room sealed by the police. As soon as we enter a strong smell of curdled blood can be felt. I twisted my nose, reminding myself of the stinking trenches of the Great War.

A man was on the floor, dead. His body twisted and with several wounds all over. His hands and arms were cut at several points, indicating that he still tried to fight his opponent but failed. He was stabbed several times and blood marks were everywhere.

"Leave me and my assistant McKlein alone." ~~Poirot~~ Jacquin asked.

As soon as the man left us alone, my friend began to watch the body. He crouched next to him, more specifically where there was a huge pool of blood, and I could see in his eyes a voracious glow.

"Poirot ... you're not thinking ..."

"Shhhhh!" he turned to me with an irritated expression. "The walls have ears."

"Ah ... Jacquin, are you looking at this blood and ...?"

"Oh, no, no, no, no way!" he laughed. "This kind of blood is not suitable for ... you know. But I can make use of it for something else."

Touching the puddle with his fingertips, Jacquin closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. For a moment I felt the air in the room grow heavier. but lasted only an instant.

"Our poor victim died in the midst of much pain and despair." he stood and wiped the blood from his fingers with a handkerchief. "It's just this kind of victim that 'they' want justice done."

" _They_?" I frowned. "You mean the entities with which you made such ... deal?"

"Let's get out of here."

Jacquin and I went back to talking to our client. We took the names of possible witnesses and wrote down their addresses. We would start doing the research the next day. On my way home, while my companion drove the car (I was not yet accustomed to right-hand traffic) I asked:

"Are not you going to tell me who they are, Hercule?" he shot me an oblique look and I frowned. "Come on, no one will hear us."

"Very well, Arthur ..." he sighed. "They ... well ... not even I know exactly what they are ... I'm not even sure if they are entities created by God ... In fact, they seem to me to be ... amoral, neither good nor bad."

"How did you meet them?"

"I knew them ... on the day of my first death."

I shuddered. Poirot remained quiet until we got home. As soon as he got out of the car, I asked:

"How many times have you died, Poirot?"

He hesitated a little before answering: "Three."

"Three?"

"Yes. The last one you witnessed with your own eyes. The second was during the Great War. It was the first time I had thought to change my identity, but since all the witnesses to my death had been killed, I didn't see the need to do so. And the first time..."

He stopped abruptly. He opened the door and I followed. He went to the liquor booth (much more modest than the one he had in his old apartment) and took a bottle and took a sip. Then a second. And then a third.

"Sorry." I said, lowering my head. "You do not have to tell me if you do not want to."

"I don't want to, but I must." he said, approaching me. "You are my love, my husband, and you deserve to know the truth."

I smiled and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. I sat down on the couch and waited patiently until Poirot began to tell the story.

"It happened in 1882. I worked at the police as an investigator, I was ... I was killed during my work, an idiotic distraction: I turned my back at the wrong time and I was hit by a thump."

"Who...?" I felt the blood boil in my veins. "Who killed you?"

"A despicable killer." he murmured. "A monster, so bad as Jack the Ripper. He killed eight young women between 1880 and 1882, dismembering their bodies in a horrendous way. It took me a long time to find a clue and I went to question him. unconscious I felt a great rage of myself for allowing myself to be caught, and knowing that he would escape unpunished, for my colleagues in the police would be able to find all the clues that only I had gathered up to that moment. I felt anger. So much anger... for him... for _me_... what an idiot I was! "

"Hercule." I held it in his hand. "You weren't to blame. Everyone can be careless."

"Not me, at least not in those circumstances."

"But what happened after you ... died?"

Poirot was mute for a few moments, as if the memories of oblivion were not pleasant.

"I ... I heard a voice ... a voice communicating directly with my soul. It sounded stern but fair. It said it could feel all my hatred and pain and ... had a proposal: that it would bring me back to life as an immortal entity if I helped other poor dead souls in the midst of pain and suffering being avenged. "

He paused.

"I accepted the agreement, I could make a deal with the Devil himself if that would allow me to come back to life and take revenge on that damn killer."

"Yes, surely he should have been a horrible man, but ... you are so Catholic, Poirot. A man of faith. It's strange that you, of all people I know, may have made a pact with an entity unknown. "

He lowered his head with a sad smile on his face.

"One of the young women the murder killed was my fiancée."

I widened my eyes, unable to say anything.

"Virginia was her name, the most beautiful woman ever born in Belgium, she was thirty years old, but if you saw her, you wouldn't give her more than twenty. She had a lot of energy, strong willpower, and she was a little sassy, but this was what I loved about her. "

I felt a pang of jealousy at that, but I controlled myself. He went on:

"Unfortunately, we had a discussion a few days before her death, a foolish motive that I can't even remember now. It was probably my fault ... it always was! Anyway, I stayed two days without looking for her until I went to her house to beg for her forgiveness. She lived in a rented room in a local tavern. When I went to ask for Virginia, one of the men from the tavern told me, with a jest smile, that saw Virginia leaving the bar drunken in the company of a man the night before. The fact that she was drunk was what made me more alarmed because she never exaggerated in the drink. She should have been drugged ... "

Poirot forced himself to pause, as if telling the story would cause him physical pain.

"Afterwards ... I went looking for her. All the police went. After two days we found her ... uh ..." his voice was even more pained. "... or at least a _piece_ of her ..."

At that moment I hugged Poirot, burying his face in my shoulder as he stroked her back and head. I didn't want to hear that. I didn't want to hear his voice like that anymore. It was too painful. Too cruel to force him to relive those memories.

I could hear him sobbing quietly on my shoulder and imagined that his pain in losing Virginia should have matched mine when I thought he was dead.

"Poirot ..." I whispered softly. "It's okay. You don't have to go on if you don't want to. If this causes you pain, then I'm not interested anymore."

"No ..." he pulled away from me, his eyes wet with the tears he was holding. "I must tell you, _mon amour_ , you have the right to know, and besides, Hercule Poirot never leaves an unfinished story, or ... Pierre Jacquin never leaves an unfinished story."

  
At this I gave a small laugh and nodded. He went on:

"As I told you, I found the right lane and went to question the man. Dupont was his name. He was quite surprised to see an investigator at the door of his house, for the bastard imagined that he had hidden his traits very well. Ah ... I almost took out my pistol and I killed him at that moment, but no, I believed in the law at that time. I still believe. I began to question him and I got him with the right questions.The man was so shaken that he was almost and then when I turned around for a moment he attacked me, I fell ... and I was killed ... and then ... I was quartered. "

"Good Lord!"

"Well, I didn't feel the pain of the quartering, if that is your concern. And I doubt that this pain compared to the horrible sense of failure I carried, I had failed, and Virginia's death would never be avenged. then ... the entity came to me and I made the pact. It would bring me back as a Revenant. "

"A Vampire." I said, rather abruptly.

"If you prefer, yes, a Vampire. After that, several days passed, three months later, to be exact, I woke up at Gravensteen Castle, today it is very visited by tourists, but some of its compartments are secret, Some vampire colleagues were there to welcome my new life. They said they had enough work to regenerate my body from my arm, which they found buried in the forest. They told me ... well, they explained to me some things, they spoke of the laws ... "

"Do not reveal yourself to humans?"

"Yes, this is one of them, not that many of them have not already broken it at least once, but ... well, let's not talk about it! Anyway, they explained to me who I was.My powers and how to use it, the first thing I did was to ask them to come to my house, which had been closed down since my disappearance, and bring me one of my Belgian police uniforms ... "

He paused, and this time a sinister grin flashed across his face.

"The second was to go straight to the damn Dupont's house and ... kill him ... with my own hands ... and I did it slowly ... very slowly!"

I widened my eyes in surprise. And also a bit proud. A monster like this would never deserve any kind of mild death.

"I admit that I am not proud of what I did, I would like to take him to justice, but my fury spoke louder. When I killed Dupont I have begun to repay my debt by making the souls of the poor women he killed resting. This is the work of a Revenant: to give peace to distressed souls who cry out for vengeance."

"Oh. So that's why you've always had more predilections for murdering than for stealing jewelry, even though many of them pay more?"

"It was a way to pay off my debt, and I must admit, it's a lot bigger than I expected. It's been almost forty years, and I have not taken it away yet."

"Oh ... and what will happen when you ... take it off?"

"I'll be a normal human being again, mortal, no special powers, and my biological clock will run again."

"I understand." I smiled and kissed him again. "This is a relief, because if you told me that you would die as soon as you took out your debt, I would prohibit you from continuing to resolve cases."

"No need to worry, _mon chou_! I still have many years..." He looked down for a moment. "... although I almost wish my debt would be taken away at once."

"Why, don't you like being a vampire?"

"It's not this, it's ..."

He stopped and stared into my eyes. I could see how sad his expression was. He shook his head and continued:

"Let's not talk about it, let's enjoy the tonight, right?"

"Sure, I'm yours, Hercule."

"Yes." he said, with a voracious smile. "You are, Arthur."


	7. Chapter 7

It was the Christmas of 1934. Me and my partner were invited to spend the last week of the year at the home of the artist Georges Lambert. Jacquin had solved a case in which one of the paintings of the painter had been stolen before he finished it.

"It's really deplorable this wave of crimes that has affected Belgium in recent times!" said the man with affection. "This is not a Saxon country or something ... "He looked at me with a look of bewilderment and then distorted an expression of remorse. "Oh, sorry!"

"Don't worry, sir." I replied, knowing full well that the offense was purposeful. At this point my French was as sharp as my English. "I also think England are going through bad times. I had actually invited my friend here to be part of Scotland Yard, where he would certainly have a lot more work available."

"Maybe one day!" Jacquin said, winking at me.

"Yes, that country really needs help." said the painter, sipping his liquor. "Since the death of our illustrious fellow-countryman, the late Hercule Poirot, the English are left to the moths. They consider themselves very wise in criminal theories, but in practice they are a disaster."

"Maybe that's why their best detectives are fictitious, right?" Jacquin laughed.

Sighing, I excused myself and walked away. Not because I felt offended, but by the reference of Poirot's name. I went to the balcony, which was empty at that moment, to enjoy some cold air.

I cannot say that my life with Jacquin had been bad in the last few years. On the contrary. In a short time he built a favorable career and the price of his consultancy increased more and more. We lived a very satisfying domestic life. My friend began to be called to resolve some cases in France and Germany. His fame was beginning to rise and his name began to appear in the newspapers.

With the exception of a few chattering clients, my life with Jacquin was marvelous. And maybe all this perfection was what worried me most.

"Mr. McKlein?"

It took me a while to realize they were talking to me.

"Oh, lady Lavousier." a short, blond-platinum woman, put her hand on my shoulder. "May I help you?"

"Oh, depending on your answer to my question you can help me." the woman smiled. The kind of smile that preceded a question I hated to hear: "Tell me, Monsieur Jacquin is married?"

I was tired of answering this question.

"With all due respect, lady Lavousier, what do you see in my friend to attract you so much?"

"Huh?" the woman was taken by surprise by my question. "Well, he ... well, he's quite attractive!"

"Don't you think he's too short? Bald? A laughable oval head? Wouldn't he have a rather overweight belly?"

"Oh, stopping to think, yeah, but I don't see these details as a major problem, it's his personality that attracts me most."

"Personality?" I gave a nasal laugh. "He's a bit, like I'll say, annoying sometimes, isn't he? Too methodical, wordy, full of mania, a genius man, but rather self-centered, don't you think? "

"Oh, Mr. McKlein!" the woman crossed her arms in irritation. "I just asked to answer a question with 'yes' or 'no'! After all, is Monsieur Jacquin married or not?"

"I'll tell you when you tell me one thing that you really like on him."

She pondered the question for a moment.

"Honestly, I don't know, I don't deny that he has a lot of flaws, but for me the quality stands out a lot more, and he seems to have a ... 'thing' that really makes him very attractive!"

"A _thing_...?"

That conversation really was not doing me any good.

"Ah, you didn't answer my question!" I heard the woman complain as I walked away from the balcony.

My friend was in the room, talking to other artists, Lambert's friends. He seemed to be having a good time (and the men's eyes indicated that they too were enjoying the detective's presence).

"I didn't know you were interested in theater, Monsieur Jacquin!" one of them said. "I thought the dramas of real life were the ones that most appealed to you."

"And they really appeal to me, especially because a lot of them get to be pleasantly theatrical. Sometimes working as a detective is being an actor, after all we have lines to memorize, do little improvisations and pretend emotions before the suspects."

"Haha, speaking like that seems like knowing acting must be a basic requirement for the job of detective!" one of the men placed a hand on Jacquin's shoulder. "Maybe, when you retire from the police, you could try the theater!"

"Oh, yes, it's a possibility!"

"Jacquin." I said, rather abruptly. "Could you come with me for a minute? I need to talk privately about ... about the last case we settled on the Riviera, I think I had some interesting insights."

"Oh yes of course!" Understanding what I meant, he bowed to the two men. "Excuse me, gentlemen, this is a confidential matter of the police."

We left the room and went upstairs to the room Lambert had prepared for us. There was a double bed in the room (the man knew about our relationship) and the walls were thick enough for no one to hear.

"What happened, Arthur?" his expression was serious. "You look pretty shaken."

"You can say yes to this." I said, sitting on the bed and giving a long sigh. It was good to stop playing the 'McKlein character' for a few moments. "Hercule, you must know that ... well ... Lady Lavousier asked me if you were married."

" _La, la, la_!" he gave a friendly laugh. "Are you jealous, Arthur?"

"Well ... a little, but it's not only jealousy. I wanted to know if you're doing it on purpose."

"Huh? Doing what on purpose?"

"Seducing people!" I said, a little too loudly (someone with my head against the door could have listened).

"Arthur ..." Poirot's expression was a mixture of pity and irritation. "Do you really think I'd get flirtations out there while I'm living with you?"

"I ... I don't know ..." I replied, frustrated. "I don't know, Hercule. Sometimes I think you have _too many_ admirers! I mean, even before we were together you had a lot of admirers, but in recent times ..."

My speech was interrupted when Poirot knelt in front of me and kissed me, shutting me up for a moment. Oh, this always worked. I was in his hands every time he did it. And Poirot knew.

"Arthur." he broke the kiss abruptly and whispered in my ear. "You foolish, foolish man! How can you think I'd be interested in anyone but you? The affection I show you is not enough? Don't you trust my love?"

I shouldn't have, but I asked the question that most tormented me.

"Do you love me, Hercule?"

"Of course!" he answered immediately.

No. The question that plagued me was the next:

"And I ...? Do I love you?"

For a moment Poirot was confused. A rare sight.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying ..." I took a long breath, clenching my fists. "... do I really love you or is this the influence of your power?"

"My ... what?!"

"Your revenant powers!" I got out of bed, feeling my heart beat fast. "I know you have the power to seduce people. I read Dracula. You… Do you use this power on purpose or is it something you cannot control? How it's work? Is it subtle or is it some kind of blood ritual that I cannot figure out what you do? That I cannot _remember_ what you do ?!" my voice had a grave accusatory tone. "Hercule ... have you ever made me ... forget something?"

I could clearly see the anguish in Poirot's face and it hurt me deeply. For a moment I wanted to kneel at his feet and ask forgiveness for my words. An overwhelming fear of losing him at that moment almost made my will fail ... but no, I had to hold on until I heard his response.

"Oh, God ..." He lowered his head in mourning, and murmured to himself, "God…!"

"What?" I was taken by surprise. "You...?"

I couldn't finish the sentence, Poirot's eyes were full of water. Oh, how I regretted my words at that moment. My determination had come to the limit.

"Hercule!" I hugged him. "Hercule I ... forgive me! I don't know what got into me, I ... I trust you! I love you!"

He responded by getting rid of my arms and moving away. His expression was still anguish.

" _Non, mon cher amour_ ..." he murmured. "You are right, you cannot claim to love me. In fact, is it possible for any human being to love _someone_ like me? A cursed creature, an immortal trapped in agreement with an entity that is not of God!" he gripped his wrist tightly, with so much force that his fingers penetrated the flesh and broke his veins. "... I am _cursed_!"

"Hercule!" I screamed and held onto his arm. "No! What are you doing?! Don't do this!"

With great might, he got rid of my hands. The blood dripping from his arm dripped on the floor in huge drops. At this moment we heard a knock on the door.

"Mr. McKlein, Monsieur Jacquin?" it was possible to hear the voice of one of the servants on the other side of the door. "Is everything okay over there?"

"Yes, it is!" Poirot hurried to answer. "I just ... I cut my finger with the letter opener."

"Oh, do you want me to get bandages?"

"No, it was nothing. I'm already taking care of it."

The servant answered in affirmative and left. When I looked again at Poirot's arm, the injury he had caused to his own wrist was already fading. The self-healing of the revenants used to be quick for minor injuries.

However, healing a broken heart could take a long time.

"Hercule ..." I approached him.

"Jacquin." he answered me dryly and then said the next sentence in a low voice. "We don't know if more people around are listening."

"Jacquin ..." I said, my voice filled with regret. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to be forgiven, McKlein." he said. Although his voice was calm, there was still much disgust in his expression. "You ... you're right to distrust me. In fact, no one should trust me."

"No! You're a good person, someone worthy of being trusted and loved, I just ..." I sighed. "I'm a fool."

"You really are a fool, McKlein, but a fool far more insightful than you think." he struggled to smile. "In fact, we Revenants, we have a kind of ... how shall I put it ... a kind of tendency to attract the attention of the people. We succeeded in mesmerizing an audience with a certain ease. This is the reason why I always like reveal the culprit of the crimes as if I were giving a show. Usually people do not move a muscle, not even the culprits, even after I say in their faces that they are guilty."

"Not all." I said, remembering the incident with Major.

"Yes, not all of them. Sometimes some people can get out of control."

"Control." I repeated, biting my lip. "And you use this control on ... other occasions?"

Poirot lifted his head and looked me straight in the eye.

"Arthur." he said my name, ignoring the caution of before. "The only thing I can do is give you my word that I've never ... _never_ used any kind of control over you. And much less I made you forget anything." he looked away for a second. "But it is quite plausible that the natural influence that the revenants create around themselves may have certain ... influence on your love for me. But I swear by all that is most sacred (if it is permitted to someone like me swear by the sacred), I never used any power on you. Before we even declare our love for one another, I tried to make you find love in another person. "

"Dulcie?" I remembered our case of France, the murder on the links. I remember that Poirot realized that I had found the singer attractive and did his best to bring me closer to her. But even then I was already in love with him and his efforts were in vain.

"Exactly. She and other ladies I thought might fit you, because ... well ... I could already see certain signs that you were interested in me. "

"It is true." I smiled, blushing a little. "I've never been good at hiding my feelings."

"Yes, and I suspected that I might be ... 'inverting' you because of my revenant influence, so I've tried to make you interested in other people. The truth is that over time I gave up trying, because I was also falling in love with you. "

"Oh, Hercule!" his words made me smile and I leaned in to kiss him but he pulled away.

"Arthur." he sighed. "Let's make a deal: for one year, we'll stay away from each other."

"What?!" I was alarmed. "Why?"

"If your love for me is really the fruit of my powers and not of a true feeling, it is likely that if you stay away from me for a time this influence will disappear."

"No...!" I exclaimed, almost in panic. "No, I don't want this! I don't want to be away from you!"

"Are you listening to yourself, Arthur?" Poirot's eyes were sad. "See how desperate you sound? Maybe I really am a bad influence on you."

"But...!"

"No." his voice was categorical. "After the new year I'll arrange the ship tickets for you." Poirot turned his back on me. "Captain Hastings will return to Argentina."

 

..................................................

 

I swore I would only write these journals again if I had good news to tell.

In March of 1935 I was in the city of Santa Fé, in Argentina, in my abandoned ranch. Well, not so abandoned, because a friend of Poirot tried to take good care of the place. His name was Juanjo and he was also a Revenant. He was the one who was in charge of receiving the letters of my friends.

Now it was no longer necessary, for I was back at my ranch, answering all them for myself. And I didn't need to pretend to be depressed when I answered the letters.

The first few months away from Poirot were terrible. An absence difficult to deal with. And to make matters worse, I lived with the constant fear that my love was not true. I confess that by then I didn't want to know the truth. Maybe it was too hard to tolerate. I didn't want to find out that, in fact, I didn't love Poirot.

When spring came (actually fall, as I was in the southern hemisphere) my heart began to calm down a bit.

"Still thinking about him?" Juanjo asked one day. He was working as a rancher on the ranch and showed up there three times a week. "Oh, you shouldn't! There are so many beautiful _chicas_ and _chicos_ here, I'm sure Poirot will not be jealous if you slip away once!"

I looked at Juanjo and analyze him coolly: a tall man, tanned skin, a handsome face, blond hair that contrasted with his black eyes and a typical athlete's physique. He was like a Norse God tanned by the sun. Very atractive. But then I shook my head, wondering if the fact that I thought he was pretty had to do with the influence of the Revenants.

"I'd rather stay here," I said, fanning myself with a fan to ward off the scorching heat of that day.

"What a pity, you don't know what you're missing! I'm going to a ballroom in the city to teach some _gringas_ dancing tango! Come with me!"

"Thank you for the invitation, but no."

"Oh, all right." he turned to leave, but I called him.

"Wait, Juanjo, may I ask you a question?"

" _Sí_?"

"You ... do you usually use your powers to seduce people?"

"What?!" he shook his head. "Do you think I _need_ this? Hah, my natural charm is more than enough to make girls fall for me! I only use my influence when I'm hunting."

"Hunting ..." I frowned. "Do you drink blood very often?"

"Only the bastards who try to hurt the girls. These I hunt and drink the blood until the last drop!"

"So ... is this your mission?"

"What?"

"Your mission, Hercule told me that every Revenant has a mission. To make the souls of people who died in pain and hate rest in peace."

"Ah, yeah, you could say that." his expression grew more serious. "I died thirty years ago, trying to protect a _chica_ from being raped by a bastard _cabrón_. Unfortunately he had a gun and killed me. I returned the following week and I kill him. And since then this has been my mission. "

"And the Revenants, in general, devote a lot of time to their respective missions?"

The man looked at me with an expression of doubt and then laughed.

" _Jajajaja, no_! Most of the revenants don't care much about this, or they carry out these missions very slowly, most of them prefer delaying more and more debt relief with the entity."

"And why?"

"Because as soon as the debt is paid, we shall again be mortal." Juanjo sighed, as if explaining the most obvious thing in the world. "A lot of us end up liking the revenant life, and they don't want it to end so soon, that's why we just like to keep postponing work, some of us even ignore it. Of course this is not very advisable."

"Why not?"

"Well ... let's suppose that you hire a person to cut down the trees on your farm, and for this you give this person an axe. In the beginning the person does everything as arranged and chops the trees diligently. But with the time the lazy woodcutter begins to use the axe to cut the head of chickens, ducks, uses the axe to destroy old furniture ... for a while you don't mind as he continues to cut the trees you asked for. After a while he simply stops cutting trees and uses the axe you gave him for other functions. "

"Would the axe be an allegory to the powers that you have gained?"

"How clever!" the Argentinean smiled. "And the person who hired the woodcutter obviously will not be happy to see him using the axe in this way, so he would only have to take the axe back, right? In this case, the entity begins to take away some of the resistances of immortals. You are becoming more fragile and more susceptible to being killed ... again. And this time, definitely. "

"And what 'frailties' are these?"

"Watch this!"

Juanjo left the house and went outside. It was a hot morning and the sun was bright.

"You see? I'm standing in the sun without suffering any damage. This is proof that I'm taking care of my terms of the contract, but the revenants who start to abuse their powers and use them for other things begin to gain weaknesses. And one of the first is to burn under the sun. "

"Oh!" the vampire books I read began to make sense. "And stakes in the heart?"

"Hmmm, yes! That one too. Nevertheless, the entity tends to be more vicious with revenants who use their powers to spread more pain and suffering in the world, rather than appease them. They become deformed, unable to walk during the day, become creatures of darkness. Have you ever watched Nosferatu? That is the portrait of a Revenant who abuses his power. "

"Are there many of them out there?"

"Some, unfortunately! Sometimes the entity gives us extra missions to exterminate these demons, not that it's easy, as these vampires often still have a lot of power, but nothing that we, revenants who walk the line, should fear. We are immortals, as long as we are doing our work. "

"Hmmm." many thoughts began to roll in my head. "I wonder if Hercule is already close to completing the terms of his pact. It's been many years."

"Well, usually it depends a lot on how much hate and regret the person carried inside him before he died." said Juanjo, scratching his chin. "If the pain is too intense, then it takes longer. There are rumors that forgiving yourself also helps mitigate the debt."

If this was true, then it would take Poirot long to stop being immortal. He was never forgiven for what happened to Virginia.

"I need to go, _captáin_. And since you'll be here all year long, invite your nephew and your friend Miss Lemon to visit you. They were about to come here without warning. And I would have a bad time explain your absence."

"Yes, that's true. I think I'll write to them proposing a visit."

"Good, do this. _Adiós_! See you next Wednesday."

..................................................

 

In July, when winter arrived in the Southern Hemisphere, my nephew David and Miss Lemon came to Santa Fé. They didn't look very different, just a little older. This made me think a bit about the passage of time.

"You look well, Captain" said Miss Lemon "Although you still has the same gloom expression of five years ago."

It would be difficult to explain to my old friend that my 'loss' was recent.

"I was hoping to find you fatter, uncle." David laughed, trying to make a little humor. "After all, by your letters, you do nothing else but eat and sleep and mourn the loss of your friend."

"Oh, I've done a bit of workout. Juanjo tries to drag me into town from time to time to watch the dance classes he gives to foreigners. They're good people, some come here and keep me company. "

"I'm glad you're not totally lonely, Captain." Miss Lemon smiled.

"Oh no, I'm okay. You don't have to worry about me."

Unfortunately, being a lousy liar, my nephew and my friend could realize that I was not being completely honest.

"You should go back to England, uncle." David said with a serious tone. "Your family is there. Your oldest friends are there."

"I ... I'll think about it." I said, somewhat annoyed. "For now, the sunny environment is doing me good, I mean, it's winter and even then it's still possible to stay outdoors with a short-sleeved shirt. I like the warm."

"Well, I cannot force you to anything." my nephew shook his head. "Anyway, I'll try to come here at least once a year to make sure you're okay."

"Oh. That would be ... great." it was the best lie I could distil that day and David was almost convinced. Almost.

Fortunately Juanjo arrived soon after. His lively and captivating personality helped to divert my guests from the most suspicious subjects. And he certainly lied a lot better than I did. Miss Lemon and David stayed for a week in Argentina until they reluctantly said goodbye to me.

Luckily, the only suspicion they had was just that I still loved Poirot. And this, fortunately, was not a lie.

 

..................................................

 

That idea was pounding my head for months, and finally in October I had the courage to ask Juanjo:

"I need you to do something for me."

"Oh, what is it?" the man grimaced, not liking the authoritarian tone I had used. "Don't tell me you're in love with the _cabrón_ here?"

"No. I'm not in love with you, but ... I want you to use your seduction power on me."

"What?!"

"I need to take this test. I need to make sure that my love for Poirot is true and not… paranormal."

"Oh, _per Dios_ ... still with this story? You don't need any test!" he insisted. "The Revenant's seductive power works only when it's close to you! If you still love that chatty little man after ten months away, then your love must be true."

"I need to be sure." I said with conviction. "I want to see how it works."

The man grimaced, but sighed and nodded.

"Fine. There we go."

I waited a few moments, but I didn't see Juanjo do anything different. I thought he would do something melodramatic, like an extravagant move with his arms, or say some magic word or anything of the sort. But not. He stood in the same place without sketching any different reaction.

"Huh, is it working already?" I asked, confused. "But I don't feel any different."

"It's not like a vein injection that takes effect immediately, it takes a few minutes. Just keep looking at me."

I kept looking at Juanjo. For me, it didn't look like anything had changed. He continued the same: a long face, beautiful brown eyes, blond hair shining in the sun, lips very fleshy for a man, a drop of sweat discreetly sliding down the left side of his face and falling on his chest with thick hair...

And then I realized: I was beginning to feel a strong desire to have him in my arms. It was not like the little attraction I'd been feeling all these months, but it was really a big lust boost. Without realizing it, I was approaching by small steps at him, until my hands wrapped around his waist and our lips were inches away.

"Stop." he commanded and I stood still, as if he had been paralyzed by a mysterious power. Gently he got rid of my arms and walked away. "There. That's how our seductive power works. How do you feel?"

"I ...uh… " I searched in my head polite and appropriate words to describe my feeling, without finding them I had to be sincere. "... I want to fuck you hard!"

"Of course you do!" Juanjo smiled and shook his head. "But is this feeling similar to the one you feel when you're near your little Belgian?"

It was difficult to sort out my thoughts because of the veil of desire clouding my mind, but I managed to make this effort and soon I began to think clearly. No. Definitely the sensations were very different. That lust I was feeling was strong but empty. Like a man who is so starving he will put anything inside his gullet, even a food he doesn't like.

Even a food he doesn't _love_.

"Juanjo." I said, a little awkwardly. "I ... I don't love you."

" _Oh, que triste!_ " he said, giving a soft laugh. Gradually, I began to feel the lust fade, indicating that he had 'turned off' his power. Now I saw him the way I have always seen him: a handsome boy, but I would not dare to have any more intimate relationship. "Well, your boyfriend will be happy to hear about this!"

..................................................

 

It was in the unbearably hot 1935 Christmas that Poirot appeared on my ranch. He was wearing a beautiful white suit, which I bought for him at last Christmas when we said goodbye. He had a worried expression on his face.

"Hercule!" I exclaimed, approaching him and kissing him. I could say that kiss had been the best thing that had happened to me all year.

"Arthur." He also seemed eager to touch me, but he kept his composure and walked away. "You look miserable."

"My distance from you has made me miserable."

"Hmmmm. And then, _mon ami_? This time when you stayed away from me ... did you come to any conclusion?"

"Yes. Revenants' power is really powerful at clouding minds and making people act on impulse, but I can say that this only serves to sharpen lust, that's all."

"You talk like this is unimportant."

"And it is, before love." I smiled. "Juanjo explained to me that any kind of influence you could use on me would have no effect with so much distance, after all this time. My devotion for you is true! And though you can use this power for seduction, as he showed me. .. "

" _Comment ça va_?!" Poirot interrupted me in shock. "Juanjo… he used the power of seduction in you?!"

"Er ... yes, but I asked for it, just to see what it was like. Don't worry, nothing happened, he stopped before it happened."

"Ah ... well ..." he said, somewhat annoyed. "And then?"

"Revenants are really very charming. All of them. But being drawn to someone is one thing, and love is another. And then this is it: I love you, Hercule, and my feeling is true."

Smiling for the first time that day, Poirot wrapped my face in his hands and kissed me. Our kiss lasted for a long time, until we finally broke apart, almost out of breath.

"I'm so glad to have you back, _mon amour_." he whispered in my ear.

"Me too." I said, sighing and already feeling my desire for his body (a true desire!) begin to manifest. "I never want to part with you again, Hercule, never again! Until the end of my life!"

Until the end.

Of my life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah! More smut! :D

It's been a long time since I've written these journals. Maybe it's an unnecessary effort since I doubt anyone will read them one day, but they are a good distraction. Especially in my current state, where I have trouble getting out of bed.

I believe my last entries were in 1936 or 37. Nothing very important, besides me and Poirot have strengthened our love pact. The news began to happen around 39, when the Second World War began.

In April 1940, Poirot and I moved to the United States.

The city of New York was young and vibrant. I cannot say that my friend appreciated her right away (especially when he discovered that the Americans called chips ' _FRENCH_ fries' ...) but we didn't have much choice. After all, what we feared most was happening: a war that was even worse than that of 1914 was ravaging Europe, and we feared that this time Germany would be able to conquer its power - and by the great number of supporters of the anti-Semitic cause within the allied countries.

We stayed at an ex-client's house for a few weeks, but soon after Poirot got in touch with his friends Revenants. A Greek millionaire named Alcides asked us to live in his house until the war was over. He was also a Revenant, although he preferred to refer to himself as a 'vrykolakas'.

Our work has not diminished. American police were accustomed to dealing with assaults, shootings, and gang wars, but it was not so good for conducting meticulous investigations and intricate mysteries. Once again the name of Pierre Jacquin began to dawn.

In November 1942 we were taking care of a rather violent case at Hell's Kitchen.

"Dismembered?" it was the police chief's question. A foolish question, since it was enough to look at the floor and realize that the victim was ... well ... everywhere. "This one must have really pissed someone off!"

"Indeed." Poirot had given up much of his cleansing craze in recent years, but I cannot say he was comfortable in that filthy, narrow alley, with the nauseating smell of the Hudson River entering his nostrils.

"Worse than we can even identify the poor guy." another cop said, noting the damage.

"You have red hair, do not you?" another policeman gave a light kick to the victim's head (or what was left of it). "It must be one of these Irishmen. These animals like killing themselves for nothing ... oh." he smiled at me. "No offense, of course!"

"Alright, I'm English." I said, struggling to smile. "And I've heard something much worse being said of the Irish by my own countrymen."

"Well, since you're from Europe and know the kind of person, then you really can help us in this case, right?"

" _Oui_!" now that he was again in an English-speaking country, Poirot could once again play as 'the foreigner.' "We can help, but we need basic information, the identity of the victim to begin with."

"How about we check among the disappeared lately?" I suggested.

"Most of the foreigners, when they disappear, no one reports. Most are illegal, so friends prefer to be quiet so they don't get attention."

Poirot leaned over. The blood scattered everywhere made the pupils of his eyes dilate, but he held his composure. With the aid of gloves, he began to move his body and the police did not even protest. After a minute or two he removed something from the corpse.

It was a small gold chain with the initials B.B.

"I think we have a clue." he said, smiling.

"Oh, it seems so." the cop said angrily. "Let's do a search for the neighborhood and find out if someone gave it for lack of a B.B." and gave a sardonic giggle at the end.

"Great, my assistant and I will return tomorrow after lunch, and we will discuss more about it." _Au revoir_.

Without wasting much time with farewells, Poirot and I hurried to get out of there. It was not very safe for two single people to walk through the alleyways of Hell's Kitchen at night, but having a Revenant by their side there was little to be feared.

Even so, Poirot's expression seemed very concerned.

"It's not exactly an easy case." I said with a sigh. "And the police do not seem to be in the mood to solve it."

"Unfortunately." my friend looked disturbed. "And I'm afraid they cannot help us."

"Really?" "What makes you so intrigued by this particular case?"

Poirot looked at me with a serious expression.

"The cops couldn't have said it, but ..." he lifted the necklace with the initials B.B. "This man was certainly murdered by a Revenant."

 

.............................................

 

It took another two days, but at last we discovered the identity of the dead: Brian Bloom. The family did not seem to have been too shocked to discover that the boy was dead because he was involved with the Irish mafia.

When we came to this conclusion, the police simply decided to file the case.

"One more little shit dead. Who cares?"

But of course Poirot wasn't going to let go of that bone so easy.

At Mr. Alcides' mansion, we talked about what happened.

"What do you think, my friend?" asked the millionaire. He was a short man, about the same height as Poirot, and with brown curly hair and discolored. We were having a drink in the lounge, amply decorated with souvenirs from Greece. "Is this a 'mission' or is it 'fun'?"

"The boy was only fifteen. I'm afraid maybe this is 'fun'. "

"The fact that the victim is young doesn't mean that he has not committed many crimes. Maybe it's just one of us doing his job. "

"Breaking the poor fellow down like that?"

"I heard you did something similar in your first case ..."

Poirot frowned and set his drink aside.

"There is another thing that makes me think that maybe this case was for 'fun': it is not the first. I checked the morgue for some unidentified bodies and noticed similar traces of violence. At first they thought it might have been the work of some wild animal, as several of the city's newcomers are struggling to adopt large animals, such as lions and tigers, for their mansions illegally. But I think they are all works of a Revenant. "

"Hmmmm." Alcides finished his drink and said, nonchalantly, "This is strange, because usually when one of us gets out of line, the Entity comes in dreams and gives us the mission to break the offender. I believe this has already happened to you? "

"No. I've never received such mission. "

"If innocent blood is indeed being shed, we will be contacted shortly. To help you, I think I'll give the list of all the vrykolakas in town. "

"How many live in New York right now?"

"Counting with me and you? Six."

"It's a big number ..." I said, wondering how many Revenants should exist in the world.

"This is a big city."

"Very well. Give me this list. Tomorrow Hastings and I will investigate. Good evening, Alcides. "

"For both of you, too."

Me and Poirot went up to our room. It was a large place, almost twice the size of many small American apartments. The bed was large and comfortable enough, especially when my partner and I did what we liked best.

I sat on the bed to remove my shoes and a stubborn bone snapped. I tried to disguise my grunt of pain, but Poirot heard:

"Are you all right, Arthur?"

"As well as I could be," I replied, stroking my back.

A cloud of sadness crossed Poirot's face, and I knew exactly what it was about. In his head came an unpleasant thought. What none of us wanted to talk about:

I was getting older.

It was clear to me that I was going to die before Poirot. An idea I liked, but not my friend. We still had no idea how many more innocent victims had to be avenged for Poirot's debt to be paid, but even if it happened that day, he would still have more years ahead of me.

The idea of mortality was something that never crossed my mind. At least not my mortality. Even when I was in the Great War, I only cared about the safety of those who were by my side. I never cared much for my death. And I never stopped to wonder if there was anything on the other side.

Whatever was on the other side would be quite tedious without Poirot.

"You ... want to rest tonight, mon amour?"

"No," I said, smiling and removing my pants. "I would have to be really very broken to just sleep with you in the same room, Hercule!"

My friend smiled and watched me undress.

Being naked in front of Poirot was not easy. I never thought I had a particularly beautiful body, much less now in my mid-fifty. But my companion never ceased to look at me with admiration. After letting out a sigh of satisfaction, he began to undress himself.

Poirot stood nude before me and I couldn't stop the soft moan at the sight, he was… he IS so beautiful. His stocky body always appealed me greatly. And his eternal youth (not that a forty-year-old body is exactly young) was the most beautiful sight.

I pulled him towards me, overcome by the need to touch, to taste. Leaning forward, I ran my tongue up the straining length, my hands on his hips. My name escaped from his lips, and I take the hard shaft into my mouth. His hand twisting my hair, directing me as I sucked him.

Sometimes our love making was soft and compassionate, sometimes more fierce, to the point of making me sore for days. I must confess that the second option was always my favorite, although over time Poirot has been careful with me. Too much careful.

He growled and I felt his fingers clench on the back of my head and the salt taste on my mouth. I sucked him dry and could fell his legs trembling while my hands were still leaning on his hips.

"T-thank goodness I'm a Revenant… " he muttered. "… or you would have killed this poor old man years ago!"

"It's not you who have the white head, my love." I said, with a soft smile and I pointed at the bedside table. "Anyway, it's your turn to do the hard work."

Without needing any more words, Poirot went to the bedside table and get the drawer open. His fingers closing around a small jar of lotion. He knelt before me. Raising up on my elbows, I watched as he positioned himself between my spread legs, kneeling as he unscrewed the lid of the jar. He coated his fingers in the lotion and started to rubbing our shafts together.

Throwing my head back against the pillow, I could only moan as the first finger entered me. His fingers were so broad and delicious. Then came the second, and he leaned in my direction and kissed me as I felt a third finger penetrate me.

"You ok?" he asked with concern in his voice. This was the only thing that irritated me every time we made love. He could worry about me after we left the room. In the bed I wanted nothing more than wild passion.

"N-not until… you fuck me." I said, my voice hoarse with lust.

He smiled and withdraw his fingers. Holding me by the legs, he penetrated me with one sharp thrust. My voice disappeared in my throat as I could feel him fill me. I could already feel the aches, but I ignored it. I twisted my hips and tried to match every thrust, his hand in my throbbing shaft, strong fingers stroking in time with his hips.

I forced my eyes open, meeting his gaze. His dark eyes watching me with an almost frightening intensity. After so many years I already knew what that look meant.

"B-bite me…!" I managed to say, though I barely had the breath to speak.

Carefully, he held one of my arms. I could feel the sharp pain of his teeth breaking through my skin, veins and flesh. My wrist opened and a scarlet waterfall spurted from it. Poirot must have cut an artery because I could feel my body getting cold very quickly. However he was quick: he sucked me twice and then began to lick my wrist, making the tissues recover almost instantly with his saliva.

I came while he has drinking my blood. And I must confess that my most pleasurable moments came when he did this.

Poirot continued to thrust into me and to lick the blood that trickled down my arm and dripped into my chest. His muffled exclamation indicating his own release.

The exertion made me sleep almost in an instant, but before this I cuddle Poirot. Together, we manage to get some sleep.

 

……………………………………………………………………

 

Helena Sanders, Reynald Thomas, François Daloia and Shaun McLoughlin. These were the other four revenants who were living in New York at that time.

The number one suspect was McLoughlin, since he lived in Hell's Kitchen and had already been signed to the police. He lived in a small, fetid apartment he shared with two prostitutes. The whole building, it seemed, was a center of prostitution.

"Five dollars." It was the first thing we heard him say as soon as he opened the door.

"We are not customers," my friend said, lifting his chin. "We're here to talk, Monsieur McLoughlin."

The tall, thin man with a hooked nose, a goatee, and red hair made a face at Poirot, then grinned at me. "Pity," he said, making way for us to enter.

"It's about the death of young Brian Bloom."

"Who?" The man sat on the filthy couch.

"An Irish boy who was found in pieces in the streets. We came here to ask if you know anything about what happened. "

"Hahahaha!" McLoughlin laughed scandalously. "And what do I have to do with this? Do you think all the Irish know each other? Or that everyone in this neighborhood is a friend? I have no idea who this wanker was! "

"But surely you would know if any violent death occurred in the immediate vicinity, even if you has nothing to do with it."

"And why do you think I would know?"

"Because you could… smell it."

The man's eyes widened at Poirot, and then he smirked.

"Ah, of course! I should have known. " the man's tone changed immediately. His Irish accent disappeared, and his posture seemed more relaxed and serious. He spoke again, calmly and thoughtfully, with a distinct German accent. "So you're investigating the kid's death, aren't you? Do you think I have something with this? "

"You will forgive our distrust, Monsieur McLoughlin, but ..."

"Kauffmann," he corrected. "Call me Kauffmann."

"Yes ... Monsieur Kauffmann. The point is, I work as a investigator and I'm helping the New York police in this murder case. "

"I didn't know they cared about the deaths of foreigners. Heh, I didn't know they cared about the death of anyone other than the richer folks. "

"And they don't care." Poirot's voice dropped. "But _I_ care."

"Hmmm." The man rose from the couch. I was still amazed at how much his personality had changed in a matter of seconds. "In fact I've noticed that some violent deaths have occurred in the area, although this is not exactly great news in Hell's Kitchen. Bodies are being torn apart and the smell of blood can be felt for miles, at least for our race. Now, I don't know much about the case. It may be the work of a Wiedergänger, or a particularly angry human. "

"It was the work of one of us, I'm sure!"

"Have you seen many such cases?"

"You can say yes..."

"Hmmm. And how did you get to me in the first place? I think you two are new in town, right? "

"Yes. We came because of the war. Who gave us the contacts of all the Revenants of the city was Lord Alcides. "

"Heh _, Dieser alte Mann_ ... well, I'm afraid his list is outdated. Many people have come and gone. There is a young boy who came from Ukraine at the beginning of the year called Piotyr. François returned to France to help with the resistance. Probably more of us must have come and gone in recent times. Who else did he mention? "

"Reynald and Helena."

"Helena is no longer a Wiedergänger. Her debt was paid off a few years ago, she is now just a normal woman, so she couldn't have killed the kid. And this Reynald guy ... hmmm, I'm afraid I don't know him. "

"This new revenant, Piotyr, what can you tell us about it?"

"Nice lad ... I mean, he definitely doesn't look like a lad, but he became a Wiedergänger during the Great War, so I consider him a 'boy.'" the man smiled. "I doubt he'd be involved in this sort of thing."

"I see." my friend's expression seemed pensive for a moment. "Could you give us Helena's address? I'd like to talk to her. "

"I just said she's not a Wiedergänger anymore. She cannot be a suspect, she's just a normal woman now. "

"Exactly." Poirot's eyes gleamed. "And that's precisely why I want to talk to her!"


	9. Chapter 9

I am sure that the reader should be anxious to know what happened in the conversation between Poirot and Mrs. Helena Sanders (if this was really her name), but I am afraid that I will not be able to assuage your curiosity. And neither mine.

Poirot insisted on going by himself, and when he returned he did not say a word to me. I decided it was best not to ask. But one thing I clearly noticed was that he came back quite sad. I tried to cheer him up in every possible way and he also tried to make my effort worth it, but it was clear that the conversation he had with the woman was not pleasant.

What happened next week was not a good memory, either.

To begin with, another murder occurred. And this time it was not in Hell's Kitchen, but this time in Brooklyn. Once again the police thought it was just a gang war - this time, Italians. Things were starting to lose their grip.

Reynald Thomas lived in the neighborhood and carried out various charitable actions, especially among foreigners and refugees. He was a man in his early thirties (though he was probably much older), handsome and gentle. And to my surprise (and jealous) Poirot and he knew each other.

"Hercule?" he was teaching some children to play chess on makeshift desks on the sidewalk and got up from where he was at once. "Is that you?!"

"I'm afraid you're mistaking me for someone, Mr. Thomas," my friend said, with an expression of complicity. "My name is Pierre Jacquin."

"Oh." The man seemed to have understood the message. "Sure, I must have been confused! Nice to meet you!"

The two greeted each other with kisses on the cheek. Something that few people who have just met usually do. I cleared my throat and the man turned to me, holding out his hand.

"And to whom do I owe honor?"

"Hasti..." I bit my lip. "McKlein. Jeremy McKlein. I'm an assistant to Monsieur Jacquin. "

"Hmmm, are you police investigators?"

" _Oui_. We are investigating terrible cases of murders that have occurred in the city. And one, recently, happened here. Would you have some information to give us, Mr. Thomas?"

The man just nodded and turned to the children. I told them that chess lessons would continue the next day. He then directed us to his house, a small two-bedroom apartment. He even revealed his real name, but I confess I did not pay attention. I was a little annoyed by the excess of intimacy he and my friend seemed to have.

"What terrible crimes!" Reynald said at one point. "It is certainly the work of one of us. I have seen this happen before: a vampire who becomes worthy of tales of horror. What a poor soul tormented! "

"Monstrous soul," I said, rather abruptly. "You sound as if you feel sorry for the killer."

"I condemn the crime, but sometimes criminals are pitiful," the man said, with a sad smile. "Vampires who reach such extremes have lost their self-control, and are plunged into an endless spiral of pain and repentance."

"And how is your self-control?" my question sounded harsh, so much so that Poirot gave me a slight pinch of my lack of manners.

"I have not been drinking human blood for over thirty years," said Reynald, looking at Poirot. "Since before the Great War. It was a promise I made. "

"I admire your perseverance, mon ami. Not all of us are so disciplined. Even I can fall into ... temptation. "

"Hahaha, I imagine you have a very tempting supply at handy!" this time the man looked at me and winked. "Anyway, I already received an Entities order to eliminate a transgressing vampire years ago when I was still in Europe. It was not a pleasant event ... for him and me. "

"And before you eliminated him, did you find out why he was committing such acts?" asked Poirot.

"Blood addiction. He couldn't control himself any longer. To make matters worse, the woman he loved had just died of old age, which caused him to indulge even more in addiction and kill a large number of innocent victims."

That last sentence made Poirot hold my hand tightly. He asked:

"You said you had received the order directly from the Entities to eliminate this vampire. Haven't you received any recently? "

"Entities are amoral, as you well know. They will only give the order when the vampire in question begins to unbalance the scales, so to speak. If in all the years he lived he avenged the death of 30 innocent souls, then the Entities will only order his elimination when he kills more than 30 souls, you see? This is the reason why they have not yet contacted any of us. If the killer avenged 50 souls, then only after he has killed his 51st victim will we receive the order. "

"We cannot allow more people to die."

"I agree. I came into town a few years ago, so I don't know how many vampires there are in New York. "

" _Sapristi!_ Well, we've already spoken to Kauffmann and Helena Sanders, who is no longer a vampire. "

"Oh, what a blessed soul!" Reynald smiled. "I'm happy for her."

"Yes. Well, as I was saying, we've already talked to two other people besides you and Lord Alcides. François Daloia left the country some time ago and another vampire named Piotyr would have arrived in the city earlier this year. "

"Piotyr Zhuravlev? I knew him when I was helping the immigrants in the port. He's not a nice guy, but I don't think he'd be able to do such a thing. "

"You've always been very nice."

"That's why I chose to stay away from the police, Hercule. I have never been very good punishing people, but helping people. "

"Yes I know."

Seeing Poirot smiling so tenderly at that man made me rise from the couch and hurry our way out.

"We need to go."

"Oh, yes." Poirot rose as well. "We have to go back to the streets. And if you can contact this Russian ... they're all suspects, you know? "

"I'll do it. I'll get in touch."

When we were leaving the apartment, Reynald called Poirot one last time.

"Hercule! Wait ... did you say ... Lord Alcides? Alcides Drakos? "

"Yes. Do you know him? "

A shadow of concern passed over Reynald's face, but he did not say anything, just shook his head.

"Just by name. But you must know him better than I do. Just ... remember everyone is suspects, okay? "

 

................................................................

 

That evening, Poirot and Alcides talked a lot. Or rather, they argued.

"Do you think I can be the killer?" the Lord asked, unperturbed. "Why would I do this?"

"Understand that, as a detective, I must be suspicious of all the _les Revenants_ in town. Absolutely everyone. "

"And who will suspect you?"

"Heh, good point." Hercule laughed, but with no humor. "I don't smell blood on you, so I guess you're not doing this often."

"Unlike you." Alcides glanced sideways at me and I felt a chill. "You seem to have a fairly regular source."

"Don't deviate from the subject. I still have a few questions to ask you."

"I also have. To begin with, don't you think it's strange that Entities have not yet sent us a warning signal to stop this killer? "

"I talked to Reynald and maybe it's too soon. Maybe he or she did not cause enough pain. "

"Or maybe, the victims deserved their fate." the man's tone deepened. "As far as your investigations took you, none of the dead individuals was the most innocent of souls. Maybe this wave of murders is just the normal job of one of us getting rid of dirty killers."

"In that... bloody and messy way? Somewhat exaggerated, don't you think? "

"Was not your first victim killed like this?"

With each new phrase they said to each other, the more tense I became. I felt like trying to calm both of them, but I could not even dare get up off the couch. After a few more provocative phrases, the two men decided to close the conversation. Alcides began to climb the stairs to his quarters when Poirot asked one last question:

"Did you know that Helena Sanders is no longer a vampire?"

The expression of the Greek seemed surprised, but also a little false.

"I had no idea. That's good for her. "

"Yes, very good."

The man went up the stairs and at that moment this fact did not bother me, but he was avoiding the beams of light from the sun's rays coming from the window.

 

................................................................

 

Poirot was a little intractable in the three days that followed. He continued to do little service for the New York police, though he could not get any clue about our killer. Or, if he had already collected any evidence, he had not said anything to me.

At the end of a rainy afternoon, which I avoided going out with him because of the flu that was beginning to take over me, I spent a long time in the mansion. I remember reading the newspaper and watching the news about the war, praying that it would end soon and that I and Poirot could go back to Europe.

I only noticed the presence of Lord Alcides when he touched my shoulder.

"Sorry, did I frighten you?" he asked, his voice annoyingly soft. "Sorry to interrupt your reading."

"Oh, I ... I'm finished," I said, folding the newspaper. "I was following the news. I'm afraid the war will not end so soon. "

"Unfortunately, humanity has to undergo many catharsis before entering the paths of peace. Much pain accumulated in the last millennia, much cruelty ... "

"There is. But it is a pity that the generations of today, who have had nothing to do with all the suffering caused by past generations, are paying the price. "

"Who said they did not?" he touched my shoulder again and I felt uncomfortable. "I particularly believe in reincarnation. Who could deny that a child who dies in the crib because of a bomb that fell in the house, was not a cruel dictator in another incarnation?

"Good Lord! What a horrible thing to think!" I said, taking advantage of my indignation to get rid of his hand harshly. "If we were to keep this thought, then would we have to accept all the cruelty that is done today because, supposedly, the poor victim has committed some evil in the past? And the people who commit cruelties today because they have supposedly suffered in the past? Will they pay, too? This would turn into an endless cycle. If so, then mankind will never have peace! "

"It's true." the man shook his head sadly. "In the last decades I have been thinking a lot about what could end this cycle of hatred of humanity. How to stop suffering? If your soul has been impaired in another incarnation, how can you avoid hurting your tormentor today when you meet him again in this life? "

"I, well ... I imagine the only way to break this cycle of hatred would be forgiveness."

As soon as I said the word 'forgiveness,' the Lord's face twisted in a grimace.

"How can you forgive someone who stole you? Wounded? Destroyed everything you loved? How will the poor souls cruelly murdered in the past forgive their murderers in the future? "

"I know it sounds difficult, but forgiveness needs to come from somewhere. One side will have to show goodwill and forgive each other for the crimes committed. "

"Ah, if it were so easy then we, _vrykolakas_ , would not exist. We are the agents of revenge. Souls who cry out for the blood of their executioners use us as instruments to destroy the criminals. "

I got up from the chair where I was, partly because I was beginning to feel uncomfortable around Alcides.

"So that's what Entities are? Tortured souls of people who were murdered? "I asked.

"I would say they are a kind of 'collective unconscious' of human suffering. Like the Furies of Greek mythology, they torment the guilty with their voices of accusation. "

"The culprits? I thought they were just talking to you, Revenants, not to the criminals you ... "

"And who said we're not guilty, too?"

I widened my eyes for a moment. Then I frowned.

"Guilty for what? You are not murderers. I mean ... most of you are not. Poirot, for example, avenges the victims by making use of the Law. "

"The Law is just a bureaucratic way of getting revenge." the man smiled sadly. "And sometimes some of us do not use the Law. Like Poirot himself, whose first criminal was shattered."

"He ... was angry! The criminal had killed his fiancee! "

"Yes." the man came closer to me. "I wonder what he wouldn't do if someone did _you_ any harm."

I could not move. I stood there like a statue, trembling with fear from head to toe. But as Alcides began to approach, I began to see him as a more ... attractive man.

"Poirot has been good for you?" he asked, touching my face and I felt unable to push his touch away. "Has it been nice to hang out with him?"

"Y-yes, a lot," I replied, feeling the same pang of lust I had felt years ago when I asked Juanjo to demonstrate how the seductive powers of a Revenant worked. "Why the question?"

"Because I wonder if you'd be interested in something ... different!"

Abruptly and violently, I pushed the lord, knocking him to the ground. I spun around and started to run, though I did not know where to go. Fear giving me energy. But it was not very effective. I felt a tug on my collar and a huge force threw me over the dinner table. I fell on the table, destroying all the ornamental dishes that were exposed. I fell to the floor, barely able to breathe after hitting my back.

"What a lack of manners." the man began to slowly approach me. When I opened my eyes, he had grabbed me by the collar and lifted me into the air. "I expected more of an English gentleman like you, Captain. It seems that living with Poirot has spoiled you. "

I started to struggle, even try to twist his arm or break his fingers, but the man just stared at me with a sadistic smile, completely insensitive to my escape attempts. After all, Revenants are stronger than humans. Faster and much tougher.

But a kick in the nuts is always a kick in the nuts.

This time it hurt. He whimpered and released me. I tried to run again, though I was in pain all over my body.

"Help!" I shouted, running toward the exit. _Where were the servants? Were they all off?_ "Help, somebody help me ...!"

Alcides grabbed me again. This time his hands had become claws and he grabbed my right leg - the same one that had hit him - with great force. I could feel the pain of the piercing and then the bite.

A big piece of my calf was between his teeth. I could have screamed, if a wave of intense dread had not paralyzed my voice.

"ARTHUR!!!"

I heard my name being called, at the same time the sound of something heavy falling to the ground almost deafened me. I looked to the side and saw Poirot, who had just put a door down, and looked at Alcides with extreme fury.

I could barely keep up with what happened next. The two men advanced against each other, exchanged blows too fast for my vision to follow, but in a moment, I could hear the sound of bones breaking.

Poirot had hit Alcides with a blow that made his jaw drop from his face. A waterfall of blood trickled down his nose and mouth, but he did not look too shaken. The Greek stepped forward, and with his claws slammed into Poirot's chest, ripping part of his clothes off and leaving three bloody tracks on his skin.

I opened my mouth to scream my terror at seeing my friend wounded, but nothing came out of my throat. I was weak, shaken and losing blood... a lot more than I was accustomed to.

It was at this moment that Poirot looked at me, and just then Alcides did not hit him in the face with his claws. With a movement practically impossible for a normal human being, Hercule leapt over him and stepped on his face, sinking his head between the floorboards. His shoes were full of blood, and for a moment Alcides stopped moving.

"Arthur!" he ran toward me, looking panicked at my leg. "Ah ... ah ...! _Oh, mon Dieu!_ "

Quickly, he made a tourniquet on my leg, although I had already lost a great deal of blood. It was hard to pinpoint which part of my body ached more, even because I was practically no longer feeling my injured leg. I wanted to open my mouth and say something, but I hardly had the strength to remain conscious.

We were both so preoccupied with each other that we barely heard Alcides's voice:

"Thank-you ..."

"What?!" Poirot turned abruptly. "What did you say?!"

"... thank you ... for ... killing me ..." Alcides stood up. The top of his head was horribly sunken. One of his eyes had rolled out of the orbit. His hanging jaw had difficulty articulating the words. "... finish ... now ... your work ..."

He began to stumble toward the sunshine from the nearest window. For a moment I could smell a burnt, but beyond a blaze similar to the second degree burns, nothing more happened with the exposed skin of the lord.

"I ... I wanted this so much ... so much ... But the sun ... the sun was not enough ... drinking holy water was useless ... I wanted so much ... for so long ... being mortal... to die!" he coughed blood. "... but I've never ... never ... been able to forgive myself."

"Forgive yourself?" Poirot's voice sounded so dark that I almost wanted to run away (not that I could). "Forgive for what ?!"

"... for having left ... my love to die ..." the lord let out a drowned laugh. "Oh, Lavinia ... sweet Lavinia ... Immortality has always been ... a burden too great!" the revenant lifted his bloody arm toward the sun, as if to receive his divine punishment at that moment. "But I would only be a mortal again if ... if ... I would forgive myself ... And I would never do this." "I could never forgive myself, not even at the gates of hell ...!"

Poirot's expression was one of extreme sorrow. After taking one last look at me, seeing that he could do nothing more to alleviate my condition, he stood up and walked toward Alcides.

"Did you provoke the Entities for this? Did you want to be hunted ... to be killed? That's why it caused all this wave of suffering? "

"Yes," he said, and on his deformed face a macabre smile formed. "... it takes ... too much ... does not it? Now ... come ... finish me ... ".

Poirot remained motionless.

"... I tried ... to kill ... your lover ... and I can still be successful," he laughed.

At that moment, Hercule's fist went through Alcides's chest. The other hand grabbing him by the neck, he yanked hard and ripped out his heart.

"... ha... ha... cogh ... thank you ..." Alcides murmured. And in the next instant his body began to undo itself into ashes. It was the end.

Then I passed out.


	10. Chapter 10

The reader must forgive me for my poor handwriting, but I barely have the strength to hold the pen. But I think it's a good thing these records should...

Oh, who am I trying to fool? I know that no one else but you will read these pages, Hercule.

We've lived all these years together and I've always told you all the things I thought and felt, but maybe you need the written record to make sure what I was saying was sincere. Well, where do I start?

Ah yes. Maybe it's good to remind you of our fresh start.

In 1945, as soon as the war ended in Europe, you and I returned to Belgium. We contribute in the reconstruction efforts. Well, you contributed. Without one leg, I could not carry building stones, let alone move to places where orphans and widows needed more support.

And I want to reiterate what I've told you all these years: it was not your fault. The loss of my leg was not your fault. Stop carrying this burden, please!

That was a sad year for us. When we returned to England we discovered that Miss Lemon and Inspector Japp had not survived the war. I know it's almost pointless to speak, but their deaths were not your fault either. And no, you wouldn’t be able to get tickets for them to America - not that Japp would accept, since he himself said before our departure that he refused an invitation from American friends. Miss Lemon also did not want to stay away from her sisters.

All we could do, we did for those who survived. I remember their efforts to help refugee families rebuild their lives. You've done so much good for them. I was so proud of you!

Throughout the year 1946 you did nothing but charity work. After all, everything was lacking at that time, especially medicines. And the poorest families suffered the most. I remember, in particular, the family in Old Nichols that you have become very fond of.

I remember how much you suffered when their baby died a few months old. What was the name of the family? Saatchi? Suchet? You felt his death so much that you even kept the boy's birth certificate with you. I think they, in the midst of so many dead, the parents didn’t even bother to get a death certificate for the boy. It was you who provided the document, right?

Luckily, there days were not all tears.

Madame Oliver survived, though her eyes were in very bad those days. She did not even recognize me at the time we met at Oxford. My family had survived, at least for the most part. Explaining to them the loss of my leg was not easy, but they believed it when I told them that I had acquired diabetes and, after an accident at the farm, my leg had to be amputated.

After the first two postwar years of deprivation, England began to recover quickly. We met new people, we made new friends and you got some new cases as a private detective. We had a good life.

The lack of a leg did not stop us from making love, although as time passed, my stamina was diminishing. You've always been so understandable! And I've always tried to appease your pain as best I could. Sorry for not being so efficient.

The 1950s began with new hope for the young people of those times. 'Pampered' is what they are called. Honestly, I thank God that times have now allowed us to spoil our youngest in this way. With plenty of food, milkshakes, fashionable clothes and 'loud music' being played loudly at parties where laughter and joy abound. Even serious conversations about the decriminalization of homosexuality began to pass through the House of Commons.

The new times look great! I would love to live them.

But the truth is I'm already at my nightfall.

It's not your fault.

I had a wonderful life at your side. And I would not trade it for anything, not even for the back of my leg. It was a small price to pay. Few decisions I made in my life were as wise as to remain with you after you revealed to me that you were a Revenant in that distant year of 1930. These were the best 28 years of my life.

And it's over. But I leave with the certainty that I lived my life fully with the man I loved.

I no longer have the strength to hold the pen. I imagine that by now these last pages are illegible.

Hercule, my love, these pages are for you. Do what you want with them: spread them, keep them, burn them ... I just needed to tell someone, even if it was for sheets of paper, about my love for you. I wish I could talk about everything we went through and how much I love you.

When you return to the hospital, I probably will not be in this world anymore.

But you're not guilty of anything and you know it. But I know you need to hear this a thousand times. You are not guilty. Not for the death of Virginia, or for the loss of my leg ... much less guilty for my aging.

Know that when I'm on the other side, I'll always be looking for you. I might even meet Virginia and I'm sure she would not want to see you in this eternal state of guilt either.

The dead don’t want revenge for themselves. They desire only the happiness of those who are alive. They just wish that those who remained should continue to live happily.

And that they die happy.

I know that one day you will be able to forgive yourself. Finally, let go of this weight, and you can be a mortal again. Like that woman you met in the United States. And then I'll be waiting for you on the other side with open arms.

I love you, Hercule. And if this comforts you, I'm happy in die first. I could not bear to live without you.

I love you until my last breath.

I love you.

Love.

Lo...

 

EPILOGUE

(Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)

May 1988

David Suchet flip through the 'Unauthorized Biography of Hercule Poirot', written by Ariadne Oliver. The famous detective novelist also devoted a portion of her life to writing about real detectives - among them the Belgian Hercule Poirot.

_"In memory of one of my dearest and most annoying friends, Monsieur Poirot, who died on 5th of July, 1930, doing what he most liked: showing off to the suspects.”_

A nostalgic smile formed on the actor's lips. Ariadne had died in 1976 and that was one of her last books. He shook his head, stroking the cover of the book, when someone called him.

"Mr. Suchet, the director is calling."

"Yes, I'm already going." he answered in an impeccable Cockney accent.

It was rather strange to be called to 'interpret' Hercule Poirot. Of course he was initially called only because of the incredible physical resemblance he had to the detective, but what really impressed the directors was Suchet's perfect-and funny-Belgian accent.

"Amazing!" the LWT producer said on the day of the hearing. "M. Poirot gave few interviews in life, especially recorded ones. But even with the quality of bad sound of those days, we can swear what you imitate him perfectly!"

They hardly imagined how much perfection...

It was really a good idea to keep the poor child's birth certificate. 'David Suchet' was Poirot's new identity.

And probably the last.

After so many years of pain, so many years of blaming himself, he had finally found peace.

At last he had forgiven himself.

Pierre Jacquin had 'died' in 1980. About the same time he began to devote more time to theological study. But for the truth, reading piles and piles of books was useless if true knowledge did not touch the soul. Feeling is different from knowledge and forgiveness feeling was quite complicated.

But he followed in the footsteps of St. Paul, the holy sinner. He found comfort in lust and penance. He had a little help from his friends and, finally, re-reading the writings that Hastings had left for him on the day of his death, on October 12th, 1958, he finally understood.

He read those lines so many times, and finally he understood:

 

_The dead don’t want revenge for themselves._

_They desire only the happiness of those who are alive._

_They just wish that those who remained should continue to live ... happy._

_And that they die happy._

'Avenge' Virginia was completely unnecessary. And spending the rest of his (long) days crying for Arthur was also unnecessary.

Hercule wondered what would have happened if things were a little different.

If it had been him, not Virginia, the killer's victim. He imagined his unhappy bride crying, hunting for Le Boucher, dying in his hands and then becoming a Revenant to quench her desire for revenge.

The detective also wondered if, after his death at the hands of the Major, Hastings would do something to go after the murderer, he would kill him and then be put to death. Hercule shivered just thinking of seeing Arthur with the rope around his neck.

No, revenge was definitely the last thing the dead wanted for themselves.

They only desire the happiness of those who are alive.

At last he understood.

Finally ... he was a mortal again.

Hastings would certainly laugh when he discovered that the last career that Hercule chose to live the rest of his days as a mortal was to be an actor.

"Or maybe, now that I've been a mortal again, I can finally stop playing." he told himself.

The new white hair that was born in his head could not be seen now, after all one of the arrangements of the production for him to interpret Poirot was to paint the hair. They would be surprised to find that Hercule Poirot never painted his hair, although this was the explanation for his apparent lack of aging. And it was ironic to think that now that he had returned to being a normal human being, he was playing himself in a TV series.

It had been so long.

Good days that would never come back. And as he thought of them, the man mumbled something in French. The production assistant who was with him asked:

"Did you say anything, Mr. Suchet?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing." He smiled. "Anyway, what does the director want with me now?"

"He wants to introduce you to the actor who will play Captain Hastings."

A wave of sadness washed over the man. _To play_ Captain Hastings ... but he wasn’t Captain Hastings. _His_ Captain Hastings ...

"David!" the director exclaimed, approaching the man. "Good, I thought I'd left the studio!"

"I was reading Poirot's biography in the hall." the actor replied. "I was leaving when you told me to introduce myself to the new actor."

"Yes, I should do the presentations next week, on the day of the first rehearsal, but since our 'captain' came to get the script today, I'm going to introduce them today."  
The door on the other side of the studio opened.

A tall, brown-haired man with a long face and pale blue eyes appeared.

"Ah, Hugh!" the director said, walking up to the actor. "This is David Suchet, our Poirot! He's perfect, don't you think? Wait till he puts on his fake mustache. The resemblance is impressive! David, this is Hugh Fraser!"

"How are you?" the tall man leaned over and squeezed his cast member's hand. "The producer said that you made a perfect interpretation of the Belgian detective at the test audience, even the accent sounded perfect! I do not know if I'm going to get on so well in this role.There are no recordings of the old Captain Hastings , so I can only rely on the appearance and the descriptions of his person made by others. "

There was a palpable silence between the two men. But it lasted only a second.

"It's perfect ..." David muttered, not letting go of Fraser's hand. "... really perfect ..."

"What?" the man raised an eyebrow, not understanding.

"I say ... of your appearance, of course!" the actor laughed and finally let go of the man's hand. "You look perfect, I've seen the pictures of the _bon capitaine_ , a very attractive man, and you really look like him, not only the face, but the voice, the accent, the naive air, _mon beau garçon_!"

Fraser looked a bit surprised (and somewhat embarrassed) by the compliments, but believed it was just a joke.

"Ah, you're already entering the character, eh?" the man folded his arms and laughed. "Well, I'm happy to be working with such a dedicated colleague, I do not know if this series will last for many seasons, but I hope so, and hopefully, as well as colleagues, we can be good friends."

" _Oui_." said David, trying to get back to his faux (but flawless) Cockney accent. "This will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship!"

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support and patience!  
> And for putting up with my grammatical errors!  
> Bye! :)


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